My twin died by suicide. I've been too ashamed of guilt to talk about it – until now.

1 min read


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Mike Radu

Opinion contributor

I don’t talk about Steve anymore. He’s become my secret. The one I’m too ashamed to share.

Steve and I were uncommonly close, that kind of close that only identical twins can understand. Born seven minutes apart, we shared everything. We lived together (except for college) until we were 27. Our mom tells me that when we were just over 2 years old, I talked Steve into climbing into my crib in the middle of the night. Mom found him in the middle of the floor, better at escaping his crib than getting into mine. Once, in a streak of high school independence, we asked for our own bedrooms. That lasted a month before we moved back in together, using the second room as a den.

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