Long ago on a hot July day my mother gave birth to me. She loved me as did my father. I could see it in their eyes in the old black and white photos. She was just 22 years old and my first relationship with a woman. I was breast fed, as we all should be if possible, just like all other mammals. It is supposed to make a strong bond. It must have, but I really don't remember much. When she was pregnant with my brother a couple of years later they discovered a problem. There was something else in there besides my brother. I don't know to this day if it was another fetus or a mass of some sort. She gave birth to my brother nearly three months prematurely and she died of complications of that process and whoever/whatever was in there. It was about my 3rd birthday that she was gone.
My father was devastated, but carried on as he had two little boys and a lot of medical bills to take care of. The whole process had an effect on the three of us, but I think my brother got the worst end of it and we all hurt in one way or another. All three of us needed her and then she was gone. I am no psychologist, but there are probably things like abandonment issues that effected all of us. Maybe they still do.