Troy was my older brother—just 11 months ahead of me. We were the kind of brothers who fought like cats and dogs when we were little, but in those last couple of years before he died, we had started to turn a corner. We were finally becoming close—really close.

His birthday was July 11th. Every year around this time, I feel him more. The memories rise a little closer to the surface, and the ache of missing him feels more present. This year, being in China, it feels different. I can’t go visit his grave with my mom like I normally would. But somehow, I still feel him with me—maybe even more clearly than usual.

Troy was the studious one. Thoughtful. Smart. He got good grades and cared about things like saving the whales and making the world better. I was the daydreamer, more interested in war games than math books, barely keeping up in school. But Troy saw something in me. A few days before he passed, my mom told me he had come to her and said, “Mom, we need to do something about Todd—I’m worried about him.”

That was my brother. Always looking out for me.

I have a small but beautiful memory from a family trip to Disneyland when I was ten. Troy and I rode one of those fake car rides together—you know, the ones where you feel like you’re driving, but the track keeps you locked in place. We laughed so much on that ride. I was being silly, and he laughed in a way I can still hear in my head. It’s not a huge moment in the story of our lives, but it’s mine, and it’s precious.

When Troy died, it hit me hard. I went from being the middle child—the one no one expected much from—to suddenly being the oldest. Something changed in me. I started trying. I started believing I might actually be smart too. I think, in some strange way, he gave me that gift.

Every year that passes, I miss him more. Not in the dramatic, break-you-down kind of way—but in all the quiet, steady ways. I miss what we didn’t get to have. I miss having a brother to walk through life with. I miss knowing what it’s like to not feel alone in a way only a brother can understand.

He wasn’t perfect. He struggled with his health—bad asthma, eczema, allergies to practically everything. He was angry for a while too, especially after my parents’ divorce. But something softened in him. A couple of years before he died, he gave his life to Christ. And I watched him turn into someone gentle. Someone kind.

That’s who I remember.

And yes, there are stories that still make me laugh—like when he used to steal my baby bottle even though he was barely old enough to talk himself. Just picturing that always makes me smile.

He was my brother.He looked out for me. And I still carry him with me—especially now.