My older brother was a stranger for most of my life. Now he’s a huge part of it

The stadium is alive with energy, a sea of glowing wristbands and concert T-shirts, the buzz of anticipation hanging in the air. British rock band Coldplay is about to take to the stage. I stand with my sister Maddie and brother Mark, the three of us packed together like we would have when we were teenagers. Except, it had never been like this.

The author (left) with her sister, Maddie, and brother, Mark.Credit:

Maddie and I had grown up together, but Mark had been raised 850 kilometres away from our home. Our older brother rejoined our family just seven years ago. He had been adopted out as a baby, and for most of our lives was a stranger to us. But he was never forgotten by our mother, who’d made the heartbreaking decision to give up her 10-day-old son on Christmas Eve, 1964. His absence remained a quiet ache in the background of her life for 52 long years until they finally reconnected. The reunion was a soothing balm to an open wound slowly beginning to heal.

Our brother and mother would have three years in each other’s lives before their time together was cut short when she sadly passed away in 2020. At her funeral, Mark stood in front of the gathering mourners and, through tears, thanked her. “The true meaning of life,” he’d said, his voice trembling but strong, “is to plant a tree under whose shade you do not expect to sit.”

Four years later, here we are in a stadium with 80,000 other people. Together. Mark standing between my sister and me. His sisters. While it has been seven years since we first met, sometimes it still feels like we’re finding our feet with this sibling relationship.

“This is surreal,” Mark says, his voice full of awe.

I catch a glimpse of Mark’s smile, the one that has begun to feel familiar over the years. A brother who fits into the puzzle that had always been missing a piece.

He’s always said if there was a song that could capture his experience of reconnecting with his birth mother, our mother, it is this one.

The opening chords of Higher Power fill the air, and the crowd erupts. The lights flash, blinding and beautiful, brightly coloured globes bounce from outstretched hand to hand. As the night goes on the music keeps building, pulling everyone in. But when the soft piano intro to The Scientist begins, everything else seems to fade away. The crowd falls quiet as the familiar notes drift through the air.

I turn to Mark. The Scientist isn’t just another Coldplay track for him. He’s always said if there was a song that could capture his experience of reconnecting with his birth mother, our mother, it is this one.

“Nobody said it was easy,
It’s such a shame for us to part,
Nobody said it was easy,
No one ever said it would be this hard,
Oh, take me back to the start.”

I can see the emotion rise in Mark’s eyes as he listens, and for a second, I forget about the crowd, the lights, everything. It is just the three of us standing there with our arms wrapped around each other. Taking it all in.

The song continues, and I feel a tightness in my chest. It’s the kind of ache that comes when you realise what you’ve missed. We can’t go back to the start. But with Mark standing here between my sister and me, it feels like maybe the missing pieces of all those years apart are starting to fit together. We don’t need to go back to the start. We have the future now.

By the time Viva La Vida kicks in, the stadium bursts with a rush of energy, and we are all dancing and singing together. The joy is contagious, and all three of us are smiling, arms in the air, fully lost in the music.

When the final notes of the evening play and Chris Martin thanks the crowd, the stadium lights begin to brighten and the world returns to normal. Mark looks at my sister and me, and there is something different in his eyes.

“This is surreal,” he says again. He isn’t a piece of the puzzle. He is a big part of the whole picture.

As we walk out of the stadium, the sound of the crowd behind us, I know this night – the music, the tears, the laughter, the shared memory – is ours. And it will stay with us, the three of us, for a long time to come.

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