I have a sister. I don’t talk about her much. We share the same biological parents, but little else. We grew up in different families, in different houses, in different towns. We weren’t even born in the same state.
She’s a lot like our mother; too much like our mother, so much so that I am uncomfortable around her. She has met me, but not her natural parents. Lucky for her, she missed out on the misery and heartache I went through with them.
I keep telling myself that I’ve dealt with it, but it still stings a little to remember. My parents were never married; my father was, but not to my mother. My father may have broken a few state, and possibly federal, laws in my creation; I was born in New Jersey. I’ll never know all the facts. My father skipped out-of-state years ago and I have no idea if he is even still alive. My mother would be no help either, as she is lucky if she knows her name these days.
I tried to keep in touch with her, but we have so little to talk about, almost nothing in common. I do think about her sometimes, but it always makes me sad that we were never really sisters.