Dear Stephen,
Watching you, then aged 13, putting sugar on my cereal, I smiled.
It was 1974 and, four years older than me, you were normally winding me up, playing tricks.
Whoopee cushions and stink bombs in my school bag, you were a master prankster.
So now, it was nice to know you cared.
‘Enjoy,’ you smiled, handing me the bowl.
Taking a mouthful, I immediately spat it out.
Salt, not sugar.
‘Stephen!’ I spluttered, as you giggled.
But despite your keenness to annoy me, we were close.
The youngest of four kids growing up, we stuck together.
In my 20s, I loved going to the footy with you and your mates.
Funny, with an infectious personality, you were so popular.
When I married in 1998, aged 33, and had…