“Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?” Craig asked, with a slightly foreign-sounding air of concern in his voice.  I was not going to tell him the real reason I hadn’t mentioned the depression until now.   Craig was never one for understanding, and he historically had very little tolerance for anything which upset the status quo of his daily life.

“I figured you had enough going on,” I muttered, recalling his sheer annoyance with our mother for having had one of her famous crying episodes the last time she visited him.  “Besides, it’s not like you can do anything about it.”

He let out a heavy sigh and sat quiet for a moment.  I wondered if there was a small twinge of guilt arising in him for overlooking – no, ignoring – the obvious circumstances that led to this no-brainer of a diagnosis.  I couldn’t really convince myself that that was the case.

“I wish you would have told me,” he lamented. “I don’t know what I could’ve done, but, still…”

I appreciated my brother’s attempt at sympathy, even though I knew all would be forgotten once I was back in Boston.  It wasn’t really his fault, I supposed.  After all, he wasn’t around during a lot of it, and when he was, everything had to be roses and peach parades in honor of Craig’s return home.  He was uninformed, impartial.  He had practically become a stranger.

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