When Reconciliation With Family Comes With a Price Tag

When Reconciliation With Family Comes With a Price Tag

When Reconciliation With Family Comes With a Price Tag



Being Estranged From Your Family

54 years as sisters and she barely recognizes me

Owen Freeman The crispy kale sits between us, untouched. I knock my wineglass against its bowl, the cabernet heavy on my tongue. I'm tempted to switch to vodka, but my big sis is a teetotaler and I'm wary of adding to the tension. I pick up a kale chip and set it on my bread plate. "That phone call encapsulated everything wrong between us.” She tents her fingers under her chin. “That's when I decided you're dead to me. We'll never have a relationship. We'll go our separate ways forever.” "What? I'm ‘dead to you'? You sound like a cheesy mobster movie.” A coal starts to burn in my chest as I scroll through my memory, uncertain which call she means. We've had some humdingers. I signal the waiter. “Absolut, please.” I ignore her pursed lips. “A double. Rocks.” Without knowing why, for the first time in six years, I drove five hours to celebrate Passover with my family, who live near each other. The moment I arrived, the tangy scent of Mom's brisket . My adult-self, afraid of losing the ground I'd gained, nearly bolted, but I stayed. I heard my sister in the kitchen, her voice bringing our old dynamics rushing back. As though kids again, I leaned toward her, confessing the night felt like a minefield; she turned away. Later, I cornered her, insisting we meet, the next night. Now, she frowns. “Yeah, big joke. You're the one who wanted to talk, so spare me your mobster baloney." Fifty-four years as sisters, and she doesn't recognize my defense mechanisms? I shrug, gesture for her to continue. "You've disowned us. I mean, I get it's a schlep, but when's the last time you came for a holiday?” "Yesterday,” I say. My eyes sting. My memory hopscotches to the seder kiddie table, us making matzo fairy houses. Stringing cardboard tubes between our bedroom windows, an improvised phone for late-night chats. Sharing a tiny apartment during college, a larger one after. When did we grow apart? "I can't remember a time before that. A ‘minefield.’ “ She shakes her head. “Like I'm supposed to take your side, against Mom and Dad.” I do expect her to side with me, against them. Isn't that what sibs do? But I say, “Hey, I was joking!” Without vodka numbing it, the coal scorches my throat. “I'm nervous. Sorry.” When she rolls her eyes, I , the girl who was my best friend. I remember a family vacation when I was 11, all in one room. Late one night, she and I passed notes in bed, by flashlight. She scribbled something on the hotel notepad, slid it to me. can you keep a secret forever She handed me the pen. duh I exhaled as loudly as I dared and slid the pad and pen back. She read, nodded. really promise I shoved the pad at her, glaring. Of course, I really promised. She scribbled again. I love you more than anyone in the world. Even Mom or Dad I'd jammed my forearm against my mouth to keep from laughing. That wasn't much of a secret. In the restaurant, she's chiding me. “I don't get why you're so mad at us. Mom and Dad would do anything for you.” "Ha. Right. Anything, as long as it's something they want to do.” Last year, I asked them to a mediated session with my therapist, hoping to calm the resentment sweeping me farther from them. I told them I wanted to talk about certain memories. They said no. I said I needed them to overcome their anxieties, so we could find a path forward. They said no. I reassured them my goal was growth, not persecution. It took four months of pleading to get them through that door. My sister puts a kale chip on her tongue. After a long minute, she swallows. “On the phone. You admitted it. You actually admitted you're gone." Oh, that call. She'd taken my words too literally. Four years ago, I'd paced my driveway, cellphone to my ear, anxious to hang up. "You used to be my wingman. Woman,” she said. “You've changed. I want the old Amy back." When I was a child, my parents bound me tightly to them, permeating my life in ways I thought normal. So, when Dad told me to lose nine pounds, I ate hard-boiled eggs for a month. When Mom told me to keep Dad company while he bathed, I sat by the tub. When both assured me that girls didn't need strong academics, I skipped my homework. I brought both a childish and their watery boundaries into adulthood. Married young to a man for whom I made limitless excuses, I pretended I was happy raising our children. When our marriage cratered, I sought therapy. Understanding why I divorced meant understanding why I married, which meant understanding myself. How the competition they fostered among the family's women left me wary of female relationships. That their making made me responsible for their feelings denied me agency. I was bobbing around the sea of my own life. My early attempts at boundary-drawing landed badly. When I wouldn't answer Dad's questions about my mortgage, he accused me of shutting him out. When Mom visited and I told her not to fold my laundry, she said I made her feel useless. My demanding distance rubbed us raw, but I didn't waver. Eventually, I stopped obsessing about my weight. I understood why daughters shouldn't sit with naked fathers. I started valuing my brain more than my body. And I handled my money and dirty clothing just fine . Meanwhile, my sister and parents remained a boxed set. She leaned on them for everything from childcare to gardening, cherishing the symbiosis that strangled me. But in pulling back from them, I guess I'd pulled back from her, too. I couldn't go back to those emotionally incestuous relationships. I wouldn't. So, on the phone that day, that's what I said. That the “old” Amy was gone. She'd sighed, then started talking about her daughter's college-move to my city until we hung up. "Get these out of your way?” The waiter points at the kale. My sister says, “Yes, please,” while I say, “No, thank you.” He edges away. I apologize for the phone call and try to explain I meant “gone” figuratively, but she waves me off. I say I have issues, too. I cry when I ask why she ghosted last year, after my parents told me not to visit them. I'd written an essay on a college , unpacking decades of guilt about what I'd said, what he'd done. I detailed the aftermath, exploring the boundaries my parents never taught me to draw. I called them before the piece ran, not wanting them broadsided if they saw it on Facebook. Or rather, if my sister ratted me out after seeing it on Facebook. My family passes around gossip like a bottomless bucket of movie popcorn. Without even reading my words, they said if I published, I should stay home. Confused, I reached out to my sister. She emailed a few compassionate words, promising she'd respond in more depth, later. She didn't. In the restaurant, I expected her to apologize, but she snarled and says I should have known that her silence meant something was wrong in her life. She's angry that I didn't support her. My head's spinning, and it's not the vodka. When she didn't respond, I should've known she was suffering, and taken care of her? Rather than assuming, say, she took Mom and Dad's side against me? Why hadn't she just said something was wrong? I open and shut my mouth. As the chasm between us widens, I wave at the waiter for the check. When we leave, we agree to keep talking about our relationship. I keep our next phone call light. I say I'm glad we're chatting again. She agrees, but says we still need to talk about “us.” I remind her I already apologized; I'm not sure what else to say. She says the old Amy would have known. She starts sending my calls to voicemail, stops answering my texts. Every six weeks or so, after a third glass of wine, I peek at her Facebook photos, her smiling against a sunset, or poking at unfamiliar foods. She posts a recent selfie, arm-in-arm with her daughter. I recognize the fountain in the background. It's three miles from my home. The coal reignites. I block her name, so her calls won't go through. Then I delete her, instead, so I can't call her, but she can reach me. She doesn't call. The coal cools. I should douse it, I think, for good. She's set the price of reconciliation: my reversion to who I was. But I fought too long and hard for independence. I can't sink back into the family machine, even for her. And she won't let us build something new. I never thought independence from my parents would cost me my sister. Still, I can't quite let the ember die. Instead, I exhale on it, breathing it back to life. The pain is all that's left between us.

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