Would have. Should have. Could have. Those are the verb forms swirling around in my head as I think about my brother who was born 39 years ago today.

In my last post, I mentioned that I hardly gave a thought to Matt on Christmas Day. That was then. More than likely, it was me being blasé in an attempt to prove how I’d finally pushed through the pain barrier of bereavement.

But two weeks on and it’s as if a tsunami of grief has rolled from nowhere and hit me sideways, forcing me to acknowledge, yet again, that my big brother is dead and is never coming back.

I hate moments like these because there’s nothing I can do but succumb to the emotions. It’s futile to try and fight against the tidal wave: I know from bitter experience that I just have to roll with it and wait until it’s over.

In the meantime, I mull over Matt’s life and the reason he isn’t here today to celebrate.

It would have been his 39th birthday if he hadn’t died. It should have been his 39th birthday if he hadn’t felt let down. And it could have been his 39th birthday if he hadn’t killed himself.

And therein lies the mix of anger, blame and guilt that surrounds suicide. A part of me (the highly irrational part) ignores the evidence and continues to blame myself for Matt dying. Twelve-year-old me still thinks that if she hadn’t prayed to God, asking Him to make Matt fall into a shark tank and get eaten alive, he would still be here today.

The more rational part - the part that will return in full tomorrow once the feelings of loss have subsided - knows that 12-year-old me isn’t to blame and neither is adult me. That’s the part that understands that it was Matt’s choice to hang himself and by keeping that decision to himself, he is the only one responsible.

That’s the point at which I get angry. Really angry. The kind of angry where I want to scream and shout at him and ask him if he really understands the consequences of his actions. A few kicks and punches and a black eye wouldn’t go amiss, either.

It’s not the usual birthday present, admittedly – and I will make it up later by cracking open a bottle of the best red at dinner and raising a glass to my brother - but somehow laying flowers at the base of his headstone in a quiet Dorset churchyard does nothing to express the rage and sadness brewing inside of me.

Because here’s the thing which, as you’ll see, is far less to do with my brother and far more to do with me and my difficulty in accepting my new status as an aunt without nieces or nephews. Or, more accurately, without nieces or nephews I have any contact with.

Not having children of my own means I’ve always had time to indulge them, play with them, read to them, take them to the park and for impromptu days out at the beach.

I’ve seamlessly switched between being the tickle monster and sneaking them ice-creams to dealing with the battle of the wills, be it over the car seat or the kids refusing to do as they’re told.

I’ve also done the talks on stranger danger after my then five-year-old niece told me that you knew a man was bad if he invited you to see his fluffy white bunnies in his car.

“What about puppies or kittens?” I asked, perplexed only to find out that they, apparently, posed no problems.

That’s not the only occasion I’ve been there for them.

Weeks after their dad had died, the shops were full of Father’s Days Cards and, as we walked down the card aisle, I felt their little hands squeeze mine extra hard.

Unfortunately I don’t send presents for my nieces and nephew’s birthdays or for Christmas because correspondence doesn’t get acknowledged. In these hard economic times, there seems little point carefully choosing a present, wrapping and sending it when I have no way of knowing whether or not the gifts will arrive. As a less-than-ideal solution, I resort to emailing and sending cards.

My nieces and nephew will always have a special place in my heart. As will my brother. Distance may separate me from the former and death from the latter but I’ll always love them, no matter how angry, sad or irrational I get at times.

Which brings me back to would have, should have and could have of birthdays and the happy ending that never was.

In May 2013, I’m walking 60km to raise £2,000 for the children’s bereavement charity, Winston’s Wish. Please sponsor me and give bereaved children a happy and hopeful 2013. You can donate here