Did I Really Kill My Brother? The Weight of Survivor's Guilt
A. B. Caes unpacks the haunting memory of her brother’s death—and the lifelong guilt that followed. In this raw, emotional, and darkly honest post, she explores what it means to grow up believing you caused a tragedy, and how survivor’s guilt can quietly shape your identity. Part memoir, part reckoning, this post offers a powerful reflection on grief, childhood trauma, and learning to live with a ghost.
SURVIVOR GUILT
A.B. Caes
5/31/20251 min read
I didn’t touch him. I didn’t push him. I didn’t throw the toy into the street.
But I told him to go first.
I was three. He was two.
We were playing with toy blocks in the gutter outside my father’s house in Caloocan City. We saw a friend cross the street. I wanted to follow. I told him to go first. He did. A truck came.
And just like that—he was gone.
My brother. My best friend. My shadow.
Dead.
You know those moments that become your origin story? That was mine.
For a long time, I believed I killed him. I carried that like a branding iron against my ribs. The grownups never said it wasn’t my fault. They were too busy blaming each other. Or God. Or the traffic. I blamed me.
This isn’t a pity post. I don’t do those. This is about what happens when you grow up believing you’re the villain in your own life.
I became obsessed with fixing things, saving people, earning redemption I was never denied—but also never offered. I became the daughter who didn’t cry. The girl who made straight A’s. The woman who ran companies, helped others, never stopped moving.
Because stillness was dangerous. In stillness, I remembered.
Grief guilt isn’t logical. It doesn’t need facts. It’s the ghost in the corner of the room whispering “it should’ve been you.”
I’ve since learned the word for this: survivor’s guilt. It’s common in combat vets, trauma survivors, and people like me who walk away from devastation with nothing but a scar and a story.
But here’s what no one tells you:
You’re allowed to live.
You’re allowed to laugh, and dance, and heal.
Even if your brother never got to.
This book—I Killed My Brother—isn’t just a confession. It’s a resurrection.
