On 3 August last year, former Catholic priest Michael Aulsebrook was convicted of drugging and raping a student when he was a teacher at Salesian College, Rupertswood. The offences occurred in 1988, the child was just 12 years old.

As the county court judge read out his sentence, the disgraced priest sat forlornly, shoulders hunched over, looking withered and weak, just an old grey-haired man with sullen skin and sad eyes. He showed no remorse, in fact his face barely registered any emotion when he was jailed again – the third time for the sins of the past.

That man, a convicted paedophile is unrecognisable to me, and yet he is my brother, my twin brother.

I love the Michael Aulsebrook I knew, I always will, but the man who sat in court accused and was convicted of these unspeakable crimes is not the man I know or the man I shared my life with.

From the moment Michael and I were born at Sydney’s Women’s hospital in 1956, we were inseparable. We were tangled up in the womb and not even birth was going to break us apart.

There was a connection between us, an ethereal knowing that no one outside our circle of two could possibly understand. As toddlers we played together, I recall our mother proudly telling our neighbours that we were “joined at the hip”. We even had our own language – no one else could understand a word we uttered – but to Michael and I we made perfect sense.

From birth to our teens we were never much more than an arm’s length away.

Margaret Harrod: ‘It feels like the brother I knew and cherished has died.’ Photograph: Alana Landsberry/Bauer Media

At school we sat side by side, we had the same friends and we shared every birthday and celebratory moment together for two decades. Michael was my best friend.

When I think about it now, Mum never really called us by our own names, we were always “the twins”. “Where are the twins?” she’d holler.

So, no one was really too surprised when, in our 20s, we gave ourselves to the Catholic church. I became a nun, Michael a priest. Although we were separated physically, me in the convent, Michael in the seminary, we were still together in the eyes of God, and very much one in our deep faith and desire to serve Him.

It’s taken a long time and many tears to accept what my brother has done, he is a paedophile, that truth can’t be ignored and history can’t be rewritten. I love that brother I shared my childhood with and I cling to those happy memories because to think anything less would mean accepting my life, my childhood was a lie. Our friendship was the fabric of my formation, of my story and my truth. But that does not mean I can forgive or even understand what he has done and the thought of the lives he has ruined sets my heart and my head on fire.

We now know that Michael began offending in 1983, before he was even fully ordained. Some of the children he abused were in the front rows of the church on that day in 1987 when he became Father Michael, watching on as he was lauded, praised and celebrated by the church. What a terrible message that must have sent them.

In 1993 the first victim bravely came forward to the church. He received an out-of-court settlement and signed a confidentiality agreement. His claims were tucked away in a lawyer’s filing cabinet and never saw the light of day.

After a period of time away from teaching, during which Father Michael underwent “rehabilitation”, he was was sent back to work and later promoted to principal of St Mark’s College in Port Pirie, South Australia.

In 2004 another allegation surfaced, this time publicly. These allegations triggered a flood of uncomfortable memories for me, and I had no doubt this victim was telling the truth. Suddenly the memories of Michael turning up to our family’s Christmas table or Easter celebrations with a young student in tow and my mother praising Michael for “giving the poor child a much-needed holiday” took on a sinister new meaning, so I contacted the church and reported concerns I had about Michael and two other priests who had abused me – Father John Murphy and Father X (de-identified for legal purposes).

It was the beginning of a decade of hell for me personally, fighting the church tooth and nail for acknowledgement and recognition of what I had witnessed and reported to them, fighting them to remove these evil men from their privileged roles.

In 2011, Michael pleaded guilty to multiple charges of indecent assault. He was given a two-year jail sentence, with 15 months suspended, and served a total of nine months. A further three victims came forward in 2016 and Michael was again convicted and jailed.

We know there are more victims, some who will sadly never see their day in court, others who’ve spent a lifetime trying to forget what Brother Michael did to them and are unwilling to allow him back into their lives through the gruelling process of seeking justice.

Since my brother was first convicted, I’ve spent many hours, many months, many years wrestling with who I am and who he is, trying to reconcile the monster who committed these crimes with the loving brother of my childhood. I’ve been admitted for psychiatric care because the weight of this emotional sludge is at times simply too much. The question “why?” is one I’ve accepted I’ll never have an answer for.

I’ve tried to reach out to him in jail, to understand his crimes and to help ensure this never happens to another child ever again. He’s never responded.

Today I am grieving the loss of the brother I loved; he is no more. It feels like the brother I knew and cherished has died. The man in jail is not the brother I knew. He is no longer in our lives and we feel the absence of a family member around the festive table as you would a loved one who has passed away. We grieve, we cry and we question.

How can I still love him? I love the memory of who he was as a child – my friend, my confidant, I love those happy times we shared, but today there is just a dark shadow where my twin brother once walked beside me.

Do I regret blowing the whistle on my beloved twin? No. The only regret I have is that I didn’t find my voice sooner.