Weeds & Wildflowers September Prompt: Sharing Secrets

Family Silence

Letting go of blood

I can claim that my familial indifference is genetic. Or, perhaps, it’s learned. More likely, it was earned.

My father was a master at not caring about his blood kin. Other than his mother. Once she was gone, he cut what few ties remained with his family. A brother was already out of the picture. His sister and her family were soon gone, too. I know why he hated his brother but never understood why he distanced himself — and us — from his sister.

I ached for family. A big family. I wanted grandparents, aunts and uncles, and lots of cousins, all living within visiting distance. I wanted to attend huge family reunions like the ones I saw in our small rural town. Most of my friends were related to one another. Everyone had nearby kin.

Except us. We were unconnected to anyone.

It was just my father, my sister S, and me. When I was almost seven, my father moved us from Maryland to Virginia. My oldest sister remained behind. D had just graduated from high school and had a good secretarial job, a serious boyfriend, and no interest in moving to in-the-middle-of-nowhere Virginia.

D was my third mother, after ours died when I was an infant and after our stepmother left Dad. D was the one who dressed me for my first day of elementary school and who made breakfast every morning and dinner every night. Maybe that’s another reason she didn’t want to come with us — she wanted to live her life and not be a pretend mother to her baby sister.

Dad didn’t like D’s boyfriend. I’m not sure why. When she was married two years later, he refused to attend her wedding. My other sister S, seven years older than me, and I took a Greyhound bus to Maryland for the wedding. S was a bridesmaid. I sat in the audience with my best friend.

D gave birth to a daughter two years later. I learned to knit so I could make her a baby blanket. Every summer since our move, I took a Greyhound to Maryland to visit my best friend and my sister.

When D’s baby was a year old, Dad agreed to let them visit us in Virginia. We were all shocked that he’d had a change of heart. D, her husband, and their baby girl were to stay three days; they left after a few hours. I don't remember what happened other than there was yelling, and my sister screamed at Dad:

I thought you changed. You will never change and you will never see us again.

She cut ties with Dad but also with me and S. Using my allowance, I bought and mailed Christmas gifts to them later that year and the following year. No response. No thank yous. In the summer, while staying at my friend’s house, I called D three times and left messages. She didn’t respond.

I was heartbroken and very confused. I understood why D wouldn’t talk to Dad, but why me? Why wouldn’t she talk to me? Why wouldn’t she see me? I not only lost a sister, but I lost my third mother. I was only twelve years old.

I didn’t understand until I was an adult that it’s almost impossible to cut ties with one family member and remain close to the others. There’s always collateral damage.

D later had another daughter — a daughter I’ve never seen, and I saw the first one only twice.

In many ways, I was closer to my sister S. We had more years together in the same house. After graduating from high school, she married and moved out. She had two sons. Since I didn’t know my two nieces, I doted on my nephews.

I moved to Maine, then Florida, then Georgia, then back to Florida.

S and I always stayed in contact, but it wasn’t easy. In the days before cell phones, when phone companies charged by the minute for long-distance calls, she only called on my birthday and Christmas. Although she and her husband were better off financially than my husband and me, it was up to me to call her during the rest of the year. She expected to hear from me monthly and got angry if I didn’t call.

We also exchanged letters — the kind you write and put in an envelope and mail — as well as Christmas gifts. I always sent her a birthday gift; she didn’t send me one, and I didn’t know why. I also sent gifts to her sons. They never thanked me.

Dad lived in a mobile home on land that I owned. He was an ungrateful, mean SOB, but I took his abuse because I believed he’d one day become the father I wanted and needed. He would call S and lie about me and my husband. The next time S and I talked, she’d grill me on his claims. She knew how he was, but she would still fall for his lies. Our phone conversations became strained.

One winter, we had torrential rains. Every day was gray and wet. I wrote to S and mentioned the terrible weather. I was working seven days a week at my new business and was thrilled to have the work. I was too busy to care if it rained every day. I wasn’t depressed about the weather, but S thought I was. In her return letter, she wrote:

You’re obviously depressed about the rain. I don't want to hear about it. Don’t write or call again until you aren’t depressed.

WTH? Don’t write or call until you aren’t depressed???

I evaluated my relationship with S and decided she added no value to my life. She was critical and accusing. Thinking I was depressed, she didn’t offer help or empathy. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have been surprised. Our phone calls were always one-sided. She talked about her life, her family, her neighbors, her church, her job. She rarely asked about me and my life. If I shared information, she’d cut me off and change the subject. Truth was, she didn’t know me at all.

I did as she requested and didn’t write or call her. Ever. Again. She tried contacting me a few times, but I didn’t respond because my life was better without her. I felt free. No more obligatory phone calls and letters. No more criticisms. No more one-sided conversations.

Shortly after that, I cut ties with my father. I’ve written about that many times, so I won’t go into it here. When I walked away from him, I sent a letter to several people, including S, explaining that I would no longer be his chauffeur and caregiver. She didn’t respond.

Two sisters out, one remained. My father and stepmother had a daughter. C grew up in Maine with her mother, but I saw her most summers. At sixteen, I moved to live with my stepmother and sister. C and I became very close. Closer than S and I ever were.

Dad died in 2006. I called and told C. C called and told S. Then C called and said S wanted to talk to me.

It had been seven years.

I took S’s call, thinking we might reconcile. She talked almost nonstop for 30 minutes — about her family, about her life. She never once asked about me despite the fact that since our last communication, I adopted a runaway girl, left my husband, moved, and was in a new relationship. C had kept her updated on my life, but she wasn’t interested. She didn’t care.

I never spoke to her again.

And just as my oldest sister had to cut ties with all of us when she ended her relationship with Dad, my relationships with my nephews were also sacrificed. But they didn’t seem to care.

I was left with one sister — my half-sister. C’s mother — my stepmother — developed an aggressive cancer. Surgeries. Radiation. Chemo. She couldn’t live alone and moved in with C and her boyfriend.

I know my stepmother wasn’t an easy person to live with, but she was very ill. C and her boyfriend were alcoholics and mean drunks. I’d seen their outrageous behaviors during visits to Tennessee. They were verbally abusive to my stepmother. One day, in a drunken rage, they told her to move out — within 24 hours. She was in a wheelchair and had limited use of her hands due to neuropathy caused by the chemo. It didn’t matter. My sister and her husband drove to a cabin in the mountains and left Stepmother alone to figure out how to move — in 24 hours — while in a wheelchair and unable to drive. Thankfully, church members came to her rescue.

I drove to Tennessee to help Stepmother resettle into her house and to make her living space as wheelchair-friendly as I could. She cried for hours. I’d never seen that strong woman cry before. She was heartbroken. I made many more trips to Tennessee to visit and help her. As she got stronger, she came to Florida to visit me.

The cancer returned six years later. More radiation. More chemo. A week after being told she was cancer-free, Stepmother died of a heart attack.

During those years, I spoke to C many times. She never asked about her mother. If I mentioned her mother, she said nothing, or she’d cut me off. I held hope that they would reconcile, but that didn’t happen.

When I called and told C that her mother had died, she said:

I didn’t care if she was alive and I don’t care that she’s dead.

I thought about that conversation for several months. I thought about C’s drinking. About how she treated her mother. The next time C called, I didn’t answer. I never spoke to her again.

And I don’t miss her.

I learned that if a family member is not someone you would choose as a friend, you have no obligation to be friendly with them or to keep them in your life.

You have no obligation to continue a relationship — through blood or choice — that offers no benefit for you. All relationships should be two-sided, should consist of give and take, and should provide sustenance for both parties. If not, you can choose to accept living in the shade of someone else, or you can move into the sunlight. I chose sunlight.

I think Taylor Swift said it best:

“You know, people go on and on about, like, you have to forgive and forget to move past something. No, you don’t. You don’t have to forgive and you don’t have to forget to move on. You can move on without any of those things happening. You just become indifferent, and then you move on.”

I don’t hate my sisters. I’m not mad at them. I’m indifferent.

I created my own family. I have a wonderful husband who adores and appreciates me. I have a smart and loving daughter; we talk two or three times every week. I have three fabulous grandchildren. And I share Ben’s family.

When I only had my blood kin, I was alone.

Now, I am not alone.

© Dennett 2023

In response to the Weeds & Wildflowers September prompt, Sharing Secrets: