My twin brother and I were inseparable as kids, even when we weren’t in the same room. One day, when I was really little, my dad took me out for a haircut while my brother stayed home with our mom. Not long after we left, I started tugging on my dad’s hand, repeating, “Bob hurt. Bob hurt.” He thought it was strange, but when he called home and no one answered, he got uneasy and drove us straight back. The house was empty. We waited. Later, my mom returned—my brother had fallen and needed stitches. I hadn’t seen it happen. But somehow, I knew.
I don’t remember the haircut. I don’t remember the drive. But I remember the feeling—like something inside me had been jolted, like a string had snapped between us.
My dad said I was insistent, almost frantic. I wouldn’t stop pulling his hand, wouldn’t stop saying my brother’s name. It wasn’t just a guess. It felt like a truth I couldn’t explain.
Back then, there were no cell phones. No way to check in quickly. Just silence, and a growing sense that something was wrong.
When my mom walked in with my brother, her face pale and shaken, it was like the world clicked back into place. He was okay—but stitched up and sore.
Even now, decades later, I wonder what that was. A twin thing? A coincidence? All I know is, that day taught me our bond was deeper than words. It was something felt.
