eccentric
It was Mom’s birthday dinner, and I gave her a
thousand bucks. My sister, Sarah, gave her a gold bracelet. Mom, all casual–like, says,
“Sarah’s so thoughtful. This bracelet is exactly
what I wanted.” This, after she’d told me on the
phone, “Don’t get me any more jewelry, I’ve got
enough to open a store.”
I thought I was used to being the less–favored
child, but something snapped. I snatched the
red envelope with the cash back from her hand.
“Since you don’t like it, don’t take it. And don’t
expect anything from me again.”
The room went silent. Aunts, uncles, cousins
all staring. Mom forced a smile. “Oh, honey,
you’re too old to be jealous just because I
complimented your sister.”
I looked her dead in the eye. “Yes, I’m furious.
And I’m not forgiving you.” Then I walked out.
The streets were damp, like it had rained
—
earlier. The air was fresh, but I couldn’t breathe.
I couldn’t shake the years of resentment.
<
Sarah’s two years younger, and she was always
the sickly one. Mom used that as an excuse to dote on her and tell me to “be the bigger
person.” I’d been the bigger person for twenty-
something years. I was done.
I walked without direction. A light drizzle
started, but I didn’t bother finding shelter. I
passed a women’s clinic, bustling with pregnant
couples and their kids. The kids were either
bouncing off the walls or snuggled in their
parents‘ arms, grinning from ear to ear.
Oblivious to the fact that their lives were about
to change forever once their little siblings
arrived.
It reminded me of when Sarah was born. Dad
and Grandma took me to the hospital. Before
that, I was their princess. Mom, smiling gently,
asked me, “Are you excited, sweetie? You’re
going to have a little brother or sister.” I
nodded, clueless. “Will they play with me?”
Grandma grumbled, “It’s a boy, not a girl.” Mom
ignored her.
We waited forever in the hospital hallway. I fell
<
asleep. I dreamt of people in white coats
rushing around, talking urgently. Dad and
Grandma hurried after them. They forgot me,
asleep in the hard plastic chair. I woke up to
dim lights and an empty corridor. Terrified. I
cried silently, afraid the monsters in the
shadows would hear me.
After what felt like hours, Grandma found me,
muttering angrily, “Another worthless girl.” |
stopped crying, clinging to her hand, terrified of
being abandoned again. We reached the
brightly lit room, and I wanted to run to Mom.
But she was holding Sarah, smiling that same
gentle smile. But it didn’t reach her eyes. She
didn’t even look at me. Just focused on the tiny
baby in her arms.
After they brought Sarah home, Mom and
Grandma had a huge fight. Grandma, who was
supposed to help with the baby, went back to
her own place. Mom was left alone with a
newborn and a toddler. Dad worked all day, so
he wasn’t much help. Eventually, my maternal
grandma came to help. But she had my uncle’s
<
newborn son to care for, so she left as soon as
Mom was out of her postpartum recovery. Mom
never really smiled after that. All she did was
housework and hold Sarah, who cried the
second she was put down.
Mom stopped playing with me, stopped reading
me stories. She didn’t even have the energy to
braid my hair anymore. One day, she just
chopped it all off. This, after she’d always told
me, “My little princess with her beautiful long
hair.” I cried so hard. She just said coldly, “Go
cry somewhere else. Don’t wake your sister.”
Even then, I knew. With Sarah, Mom wasn’t my
mom anymore. Sadly, the next twenty years just
proved me right.
