For as long as I can remember, there was one week in September that was the “birthday week” in my house. Hordes of calls from family around the globe shook the house with every ring and I awaited their calls eagerly, selfishly waiting to hear what they were sending me as a gift. I’ve can’t lie — I’ve always loved gifts. Interestingly enough, whenever posed with the question of what I actually wanted, my mind would go blank. I’ve realized over time that the best gifts are the ones you don’t chose, rather the ones given to you that you eventually come to realize their worth.

A perfect example: my brother, Eitan.

My younger brother, Eitan, was born a year and a day after me. My mother cleverly arranged that her second child’s C-­section would fall out conveniently a day after her eldest’s birthday. This meant many important things: one birthday party, one cake, one collective gift. One big birthday bash week that she only had to deal with once a year and then forget about it until the next September rolled around.

So for as long as I can remember, Eitan and I basically shared a birthday. Everything birthday­related we did together. Just imagine a nine­-year-­old and seven­-year­-old very seriously discussing what this year’s shared birthday present would be. It was a very serious matter indeed.

Eventually, sharing a birthday wasn’t fun anymore. We both grew into our personalities: me, a girly-­girl who loved everything clothing and makeup, while Eitan was an intense sports fanatic. My mother’s dream of forever having a joint celebration was flushed down the toilet at the peak of puberty. It was definitely not cool to have a birthday party in sixth grade, especially not one with your brother and all his friends!

So our “birthday week” changed a little. Instead of it all being together, we had separate parties and gifts. Eventually, all I ever looked forward to was September 23rd, my birthday. What did September 24th mean to me anymore? It wasn’t like I was getting any benefit out of it anymore; that was Eitan’s separate birthday now.

In a couple weeks, September 23rd will roll around. I’ll be turning seventeen years. I’ll probably do something with friends, get a couple gifts and the phone calls from family. Then the next day, I’ll wake up and go about the day as normal. No party, no gifts and no calls. But I’ll know exactly what day it is. It will be September 24th, Eitan’s birthday. How old is he turning? Fifteen years old. But he won’t be there to celebrate it. The last birthday we celebrated with Eitan was his twelfth birthday — before he got sick. Now it’s no longer the “birthweek” in my home; how can you celebrate a person’s birthday without them?

When I was younger, I never understood how lucky I was. I got to celebrate the most amazing thing with my best friend. I got to celebrate the day we were born, the day when I became his sister. It’s cheesy but it’s true — you really don’t appreciate someone until they’re not there anymore. So on September 24th, it’ll be regular day for everyone else. But for me, it’ll be bittersweet memories of Eitan. I’ll be thinking of his big blue-­green eyes, his lopsided smile, his contagious belly laugh and the freckles that dotted his nose. I’ll remember him healthy, but I’ll also remember him sick. I’ll remember everything about him and I’ll be happy. Although he might not be with me anymore, September 24th shouldn’t be a sad day. It’s a celebration of his life, of his accomplishments, of his being. So on September 24th, just think of a silly twelve-year-­old boy and wish him happy birthday — because everyone deserves a happy birthday.