Oldest Of Four

I am the oldest of four.

For most of my life, my siblings existed in my mind as younger versions of themselves. My little sister. My even littler brothers. No matter how many birthdays passed, that never seemed to change.

But lately, I've found myself looking at them and wondering where the time went.

My youngest brother has moved out of home. He's always been a sweetheart, a gentle giant. The sort of person people naturally feel safe around. It feels strange knowing he has a home of his own now.

My sister is about to set off travelling in a van she kitted out herself. She's always been cooler than I'll ever be. Independent, capable, and brave enough to chase the things that excite her.

And my middle brother has become the kindest man I know. Not loud about it. Not performative. Just genuinely kind. My son is only a few months old, yet I already hope he grows into the sort of man his uncle is.

The strange thing about time is that it doesn't announce itself. There isn't a moment where childhood ends and adulthood begins. It happens quietly. One day you're all under the same roof, arguing over whose turn it is to do the dishes. The next, you're catching up between work schedules, partners, and plans for the future.

I still catch glimpses of the kids they used to be. Sometimes in the way they laugh. Sometimes in a look they give across a room.

Maybe that's why it feels so surreal.

Because while they've grown into people I'm incredibly proud of, part of me still remembers the children they were.

Somehow, we're adults now.

And I can't help but wonder where the time went.