Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if I had better parents—ones who actually knew how to love. But you don’t get to choose your family, do you?
My mom left when I was ten, probably escaping my abusive, manipulative father. I used to wish she had taken me and my sister Cheryl with her. But the past is unchangeable, or so my therapist says. She encouraged me to write things out—so here I am.
Growing up, my father was cruel and self-absorbed. After Mom left, he turned even more hostile toward me. Cheryl, being younger, became his favorite and got everything she wanted—Gucci bags at 12, you name it. I, on the other hand, worked fast food jobs just to survive.
At 18, I packed my things and drove to California with barely any money. I built a modest life there, got a degree, and started working in IT. Then, out of the blue, Cheryl emailed me—after ten years of silence—asking for money. Her kid needed surgery, she said. I didn’t want to help, but when I saw the kid’s picture, I gave in.
After that, silence. No thank you, no update.
Worried, I drove back to our hometown. While there, I ran into an old classmate, John, who told me Cheryl didn’t have a child—and that our dad, who supposedly lost money in business, was staying with her.
I visited Cheryl’s house. Dad was there, drinking wine. No sign of a kid. She claimed a friend was babysitting, but it didn’t sit right with me. I left.
The next day, I saw John again. This time, he avoided me. When I confronted him, he said Cheryl told him I had mental issues—that I imagined everything and had been hospitalized. I showed him her email as proof, but he just wanted out of the drama.
Now I’m back in San Francisco, trying to make sense of it all. Did I imagine it? Was I just a pawn in some twisted game between my sister and father? I’ll never know.
I wonder—if I had stepped into that house, would anything have changed?
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