Seven and a half years

Is guilt what I feel? It's never something I ever really recognized well in myself.
What was I doing seven and a half years ago?
I was 10
I moved here didn't I? Or was I still there?
Primary school anyway. Little shirts and ties and my cropped hair with streaks.
I can't believe it must have been longer than that.
That day we drove up and my mother asked me to stay in the car.
Entertaining my impatient brothers for what seems to last forever.
She came back, angry and upset, tears streaking down your face.
You never told me why.

I remember that like yesterday.
We never saw her since.
Seven and a half years ago... That's when you died.
I only found out today.
I'm a little late.
It doesn't make a difference.
You wouldn't call me family any more.
It's only blood.
I'm not what anyone really calls family any more