my sister, whom i’ll never see again
October 2006

I am eight years old and it was two weeks before Halloween. On an unseasonably chilly Saturday, I go to visit my father who lived in a cramped apartment in Washington Heights, Manhattan. To my surprise, I found my seventeen year-old older sister sitting on his plastic-covered red couch. I was told by my mother that my sister came back to visit my father — yet my mom “didn’t have room” to have her stay with us in our two-story, four-bedroom house in the nearby suburbs of New Jersey.

A year prior, my sister had left our home for the last time. My mother told me at the time she went to “boarding school” — which I had figured was something like Pacific Coast Academy that I have watched on the Nickelodeon show Zoey 101. Yet I had never had the chance to say “goodbye” to her for the last time. Supposedly it was at this school that my sister had caught mononucleosis, and she had been recovering in my father’s apartment. My mother explained that it was a sickness common among students who lived at school. It would take about a month for her to fully recover.

Yet that afternoon at my father’s apartment, I noticed that my sister and father did not talk much. They did not exchange loving words, eat lunch together, laugh with each other, or hug each other. Sometimes my sister would roll her eyes at him.

Eight days later on a cloudy Sunday afternoon, I came back to visit my father, whose face appeared stern. He opened up his faded leather wallet after taking it out from his back pocket and placed three crumpled-up dollar bills in my hand for me to buy lunch. I walked across the street to go to Tommy’s Pizzeria, ordering a large extra-cheese slice that came folded up in a paper bag along with a can of Coca-Cola.

As I tread back down the stairs to the courtyard of my father’s building and as I open up the metal door leading me down the hallway back to his apartment. As I walk closer I hear two voices in a shouting match, peppered with a ton of vicious words I have never heard before. I know better than to knock on my father’s door. I took a few steps back and sat down on the hallway floor, taking my plate of pizza out of its wrinkled paper bag soaked in grease.

My sister never stayed that whole month to recover from her sickness. She went back to “boarding school” a few days later. It’s a shame she was never able to see my glittery Barbie princess Halloween costume.

May 2008

I am now ten years old, and my mother refuses to tell me when my sister is returning from school. Mother tells me to stop asking about my sister, otherwise I will get my computer privileges taken away, that there was nothing to know about my sister.

Over the past year, I’ve searched inside my sister’s old bedroom, thinking it could provide me with some clues. I found nothing but low-rise jeans, velour tracksuits and rhinestone-studded heels à la early 2000’s fashion in her closet; nothing but pens and pencils, textbooks and composition notebooks, drugstore mascara and eyeliner in her drawers.

I knew my mother had a file cabinet in her home office. One day my mother had left it unlocked. I was too young to understand the benefit of minding one’s own business, so I left my mother’s office that afternoon with a stack of copies of diary entries and letters written by my sister.

My sister would write hand-written letters mailed to her high school crush who had ended up moving to another town because his parents were in the military. I saw a printout of this boy’s MySpace page, which later I would realize had a cannabis-print background. Even though her lover was a pothead, the closest thing to damning I would find was a letter she had written to him about how she could not wait to move out of our parents’ house, with no explanation given. I figured she couldn’t wait to be reunited with him.

All I would learn were the details of the drama she had with her friend group, how much she adored Britney Spears and Hilary Duff, how annoying her teachers were, how she enjoyed her part-time job at CVS.

March 2010

I am twelve years old and still don’t know how to mind my own business. Yet I was starting to get some feeling that somehow what goes on in my own family kind of really is my business — after all, I am a part of it.

My parents were separated, about to file for divorce. I did not understand why, as I figured my family was just about perfect — we had a nice house, we went on vacation every summer, I got all the toys and clothes I had wanted, and I never went without food. My mother would always remind me that I should be grateful I had a parent as generous as her. And that she had sacrificed so much, she had given up so much from her life to raise us.

I found the file cabinet left unlocked again while my mother was out shopping for groceries. I knew I did not have much time — I rushed out with a semi-thick booklet, which stood out amongst the sea of papers stuffed into manila folders.

I examined the booklet in my room, its thin pages already beginning to yellow. It was a court transcript — someone actually sat down and recorded every single word my parents and the judge had said.

It dated back to 1993, when my older brother was five and my sister was four. I discovered that my father used to hit my mother in front of their kids, yet he was the one who initially took her to court after one day she had fought back.

Maybe my family was not so perfect.

November 2011

I am thirteen years old and I discovered that Facebook was all the rage among adults. I made an account to add my family members — my older brother, my god sisters, my uncles, my aunts. I would look through the lists of their friends to find more people to add — that was when I found a profile with my sister’s first name, yet a different last name. The profile picture looked just like her.

I cut to the chase, deciding to send a message instead of simply adding her. I told her I missed her and wished to talk to her regularly. She asked me how I was doing. Being unaware of the stigma against mental illness, I shared that I was taking medication for social anxiety that was prescribed to me after one of my teachers had a conference with my** mother, concerned about my avoidant behavior and flat mood. My sister asked me if I took the pills myself or if my mother had administered them to me. I said that my mother kept the pill bottle in their room but would sometimes forget to give me my dose at the exact time, especially considering she was single now and overwhelmed with work.

I don’t know how my parents knew that my sister was behind this, but a few weeks later a social worker would show up to my home after receiving reports that I was having my medication withheld from me. I did not realize that this was even such a big deal — at the time, I figured I did not really need those pills as I thought I was just “shy.” Somehow, I knew not to tell this young woman who appeared fresh-out-of-college about how my mom would sometimes forget to give me my pill in the rushed mornings.

I got a lecture afterward from my mother about how I should never trust Child Protective Services because they are only in the business of tearing good families apart. I had to delete my Facebook, and I was told never to speak to my sister ever again until I turn eighteen.

April 2014

I found myself waiting to turn eighteen, just like my sister had. Not only did I want the ability to talk to my sister, but my mom would later institute a lot of more strict rules for me, while my brothers got to do nearly whatever they wanted. Rules only for girls, rules that went beyond “don’t talk to your own sister” and “don’t talk to any social workers.”

On my sixteenth birthday I still had to show up to school. I was debating skipping my classes after lunch until a loud voice boomed on the intercom during Algebra: “Hazel is being picked up early — come down to the office with your things.” My heart began to race as I was wondering if something terrible had happened. My mother would never let me miss school without a reason.

I went down and opened the door to the office. The secretary was taking a phone call. A young woman with dyed jet-black hair, tight jeans, high heels, hoop earrings, heavy eyeliner and several facial piercings stood up from one of the seats in the waiting area. She approached me. “Hazel? Do you remember me?” she asked.

Something about the way her voice sounded awakened something deep inside of me. “Alana*!” I heard my own voice exclaim as I found myself falling into her arms for a hug, tears welling up in my eyes.

Somehow, the secretary let me go with my sister. I figured she did not care too much about her job — similar to how I low-key did not give a shit when customers and coworkers would steal drinks out of the fridge at my part-time restaurant job.

My sister still remembered my birthday. She knew what high school I went to. She really drove all the way up from Baltimore, where she was currently living, just to come see me on my birthday. And she had done it while I was in school to cover up the fact from my parents.

We had gone out to eat at my favorite vegan restaurant in town. We then had decided to hit up every thrift store in the area instead after I told her about my interest in vintage fashion, as we shared what was going on in our lives. She earned two degrees and was now working as a preschool teacher. She told me she had lived in California, Kentucky, Arizona, New Mexico, and now Maryland in the span of 9 years — searching for somewhere to plant her roots, desperate to find a place that would eventually feel like home.

I asked her why she had left home and why my mother did not like her. My sister, like my mother, told me she did not want to talk about it. Yet, as she had dropped me off back at my high school right before dismissal, she vowed to keep in contact with me.

October 2015

I am seventeen years old, and my mother figured I was old enough to be able to go outside without an adult. I told my mother yet another lie — that I was heading into the city to hang out with friends.

I was actually going to see my sister who had wanted to shop for a wedding dress at a boutique in Queens. Even though she was staying with friends in the city, she had enlisted me as her guide to help her pick out the prettiest dress.

I did not know anything about wedding dresses. I could not even picture myself being married. I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend who I was cheating on anyway. The idea of being that close to another person had always scared me — what if one day, they suddenly got up and left, abandoning you? Then what?

I personally had wanted my sister to go for a more unconventional, modern wedding dress. My sister insisted on a traditional white strapless dress with a long train. She looked strikingly beautiful in every single gown she had put on — I was just grateful to have the opportunity to see her in person.

Something was so unsettling and ironic about helping her pick out a dress for her wedding. I felt so separate from my sister, yet I was helping her prepare for one of the most important events in her life — an event in which she would join her life with another person.

I was not sure if I would even be allowed by my parents to attend her wedding. Somehow, even though my sister had already ordered the dress, the wedding never ended up happening. This confirmed my belief that committed relationships simply were not worth the effort.

June 2016

A few months after I turned eighteen, my sister told me via Instagram DM that it’s time for me to think about moving out. I protested, saying that my shitty restaurant job had not paid enough for me to survive in a high-cost-of-living area near New York City. Even my older brother had lived at home until he was 25, as he had graduated in the aftermath of the 2008 recession. Most importantly, my parents were able to financially support me throughout college. I could not just cut them off like that.

“Stop making excuses for yourself. Just join the military, even become a stripper, do something,” she insisted. The military was out of the question as I was totally opposed to war. I also had a friend who was a sex worker and she absolutely hated it. I also had no clue how to dance. Also, it’s not like I had a boyfriend to run away with like my sister had at my age.

My sister told me she no longer wanted to speak with me until I had moved out. My friends told me it was messed up that she had suggested I become a stripper. Maybe my mother was right when she said my sister was a nasty, hopelessly out-of-touch person.

May 2017

The twins were born very premature, with little Riley* having to spend extra time in the NICU.

My sister had sent out emails to everyone asking for prayers. My nonreligious dad got an email, but I did not. He was the one who broke the news to me that I am now an aunt. I wanted to swell up with joy but my heart sank as I wondered if I would ever get to know these children.

I begged him to tell her to reach out to me again, even though I was nineteen and still living in my mother’s home. He told me he would talk to her, as he had actually called her occasionally unlike my mother. He suggested that I also reach out to her myself. I had to get over my fear of confrontation and just do it.

I created a fake Facebook account as she had blocked my regular account. I congratulated her on being a mom, told her that I was praying for Riley* and Ruby*, and begged her to talk with me again. I lied saying I was secretly saving up to move out.

May 2018

I am twenty years old and I have ended up in Central Kentucky next May, visiting my sister and her twins just in time for their first birthday. My mother told me she could not stop me from going as I was an adult now. I could tell she had disapproved, but I imagined she also felt guilty about not knowing her own grandchildren.

My sister had reserved a gazebo in a local county park for their birthday party. That was all she could afford after she had no choice to quit her job to stay home with the babies — their father had taken off, and obviously our parents were out of the picture as well. I still am not sure how my sister managed to make ends meet.

I was responsible for baking mini, vegan, sugar-and-gluten-free birthday cakes for the twins, as well as preparing finger foods for the guests, including meatballs and pinwheel wraps. I also played the role of photographer, taking portrait-mode photos of the children on my new iPhone 8 Plus. I accompanied my sister as she made trips to Hobby Lobby for party decor, rushing to put up streamers and blow up balloons before the guests arrived.

Only a couple of my sister’s friends had shown up to the twins’ birthday party, along with some people from her church who came with more food to serve. I enjoyed taking pictures of the cute twins, who had stuck their tiny faces into their icing-covered birthday cakes.

September 2018

After I returned home I attempted to be the mediator of my mother’s and sister’s relationship. I kept texting my sister about how my mother has changed so much, that she was now so much more laid-back after finding a new man. I told my mother that my sister was living all alone in Kentucky and was out of work, nor did she have many friends to help her. Somehow my mother reached out to my sister first and convinced her to visit us in late June.

I couldn’t believe my sister would ever come back home. My mother would even offer to help her find an apartment nearby in northern New Jersey, even willing to co-sign and help her pay rent until she lands a local teaching job. I would gladly watch and take care of the twins while my sister was at work.

My mother was almost about to sign the lease for a nice apartment around the corner from our home. My sister declined the offer at the last second, claiming she did not want to “rush into things” and that she “didn’t know the neighbors,” that “for all we know they could be crazy.” I was stunned, considering she did not live in the safest area back in Kentucky. My sister had always complained about how she felt she did not belong in the small town she lived in and claimed that all her friends had bailed on her because they did not want to help her take care of her babies.

After she had left in July, I simply had stopped texting her, thinking it was ridiculous of her to refuse that offer. I had been wishing since I was eight for my family to be reunited, and it almost happened.

Yet in September, I texted her again, asking her to forgive me for not answering her all summer, lying that I had been suffering from another mental health episode.

March 2020

My sister and I had texted nearly every single day since that September. I would fly down to Kentucky to visit whenever I was able to get time off from work. I had watched Riley and Ruby begin to take their first steps, and they would talk more and more each time I had visited. I would accompany them to their doctor’s appointments, push them on swings at the playground, and take them to visit the children’s museums and the aquarium.

I visited her in March right before the pandemic started, when I was about to turn twenty-two and the children were about to turn three. Ruby was now able to talk in nearly complete sentences. Riley would prefer to sing rather than talk, having already memorized several songs. At this point, me and my sister were as close as we had ever been. She would confide in me about her dating life, about her new career as a freelance writer, about her applications to MFA creative writing programs. She even finally made some new friends in town.

As the number of COVID-19 cases began to lower in June, I flew down to Kentucky, donning two masks and a face shield that entire flight. My niece and nephew had just turned three. I would read countless books to Riley and Ruby, thinking that it was imperative for them to learn to read as soon as possible. I never thought that June was likely the last time I would read to them.

July 2020

I am twenty-two years old and lockdown has taken its toll on my body. I have gained over 35 pounds from stress-eating, and my mother would not stop reminding me of how “disgustingly obese” I had become.

I vented to my sister about how bad the fat-shaming made me feel. I was old enough to realize that if I was putting up with verbal abuse at home, my sister had likely gone through the same. All I wanted was some reassurance and loving words, as I assumed my sister would understand exactly what I was going through.

Instead, I was met with a series of texts:

“Idk why you don’t just leave. At some point you’re just making a choice to be there.”

“You’re an adult, you have options, it’s not a surprise when new things happen idk why you continuously act surprised by her.”

“If I had made it to 18 you wouldn’t have caught me a day past 18 there I would rather have lived under a bridge”

“Look Hazel I’m just going to be honest with you because I have to protect my energy and family. I don’t care about our mother at all. I don’t wish her harm or anything. I just don’t want to be around her energy or have her near my family. I don’t want to talk bad about her, I don’t want to be annoyed by things she does. I just want to live my life and be a good mother. I’ve purposely blocked you multiple times because you suck me into that and I don’t want to be in it. I don’t really ever want to let you back in but you’re my sister and I feel protective and want to help but not at my expense. But if you continue to make these choices and not choose better for yourself or make changes I can’t be a part of it. It’s not fair to me and my well-being.”

I did not respond. I figured I was an obese, ugly woman who was a burden to her own family, who only knew how to play the victim. I had no way to redeem myself.

I then received an email:

“Hi Hazel. It has been a few days now and I have not heard from you, which given how our previous conversation left off could be interpreted as the silent treatment. This is a form of abuse and I will not tolerate as such. I feel as though there are inconsistencies in the information I receive from you about your situation and in addition you already have a history of seemingly being dishonest with me, not being stable, and also causing me legal trouble. It is my intention to be fully removed from generational curses. You are my sister and I wish you well, however I cannot continue to relate to you while you live in our parents’ home and have a relationship with them. I want no connection to negativity. In regards to the twins, I will not allow anyone to come in and out of their lives and if you are unable to be a consistent presence for them you will have to stay out. It is not my intention to judge and I say this with the sole interest to protect my energy and maintain my children’s well-being. You may use this information to make your own choice.”

Later that night she called my father, telling him that I was highly unstable, that I was a threat to her and her children’s safety, that I was lazy and had never helped her with anything when I had visited her, that she was terrified I was going to call Child Protective Services on her.

My father believed that my sister had no reason to lie. My mother yelled at him over the phone for being so gullible. My mother then blamed me for bringing my sister’s drama back into her life.

September 2020

My therapist advised me to never speak to my sister for good, insisting that our “relationship” had turned dangerously toxic — these were the types of situations in which I could end up the victim of an ongoing smear campaign, in which false accusations could be made, and my reputation wrecked.

I told my mother about this newfound realization I had about my sister, prompting an “I told you so” lecture from her. I told her I resolved to never speak to Alana again, that I knew better now.

“She’ll come crawling right back to you eventually, and I know you’ll end up falling for it,” my mother remarked.

I still am not sure whether our mother is right.

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

* = Name changed for privacy.

** = At some point during my childhood I discovered that my sister had been legally emancipated from “our” parents. This is why I refer to “our” parents as mine. When I would talk to my sister it was understood that she did not consider them her parents. The first time I wrote this essay I was not aware of this usage of “my” in reference to them — it felt natural to me, but I later realized this might be confusing to the reader. I left this detail in the essay to add to the unsettling tone and highlight the absurdity of family estrangement. My sister and I have the same biological parents, though since high school I grew up with a step father.
['H. K.']
['Estrangement', 'Family Secrets', 'Dysfunctional Family', 'Narcissism', 'Family Estrangement']