I never really liked my family—yeah, call it dysfunctional if you want. But even so, I could never have imagined that my sister would betray me like this, twice. I mean, after all the times I helped her and our dad, I thought maybe I deserved a little bit of loyalty. But nope, apparently not.
Sometimes, I can’t help but wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d been born into a better family. You know, with parents who actually knew how to parent? But hey, life doesn’t always give us what we want, does it?
I can’t really blame my mom, though. She ran away when I was just ten, and I guess that’s because my father was abusive and manipulative. She probably had to get out for her own sanity, but it still stings. I used to wish she’d taken me and Cheryl with her. I mean, we were kids! But then again, it’s all in the past now. I can’t keep dwelling on what could’ve been.
My therapist is always telling me the same thing: “Don’t dwell on the past, Emma. Time is linear, there’s no going back. You can’t change it.”
She also suggested writing things out to help me process, so here I am, I guess.
My father? Well, he was nothing but a self-centered monster. Arrogant, manipulative, and totally narcissistic. He only cared about himself and whatever served his interests. And honestly? I’ll never understand what made my mom marry him in the first place. That’s a mystery I’ll never solve.
Cheryl, my younger sister—well, under the circumstances, you can probably guess what kind of person she’d turn out to be. We used to be close when we were little. That was before everything changed. When mom left, it all went downhill. My dad turned his rage on me, probably because I was the oldest, and he blamed me for mom leaving. It wasn’t my fault, but it never mattered to him.
I remember him drunk, ranting about my mom leaving, and sometimes blaming random women. Once, he even blamed a stripper for his misery. I mean, really? Like it wasn’t his fault. But no surprise there—he never took responsibility for anything.
After mom left, Cheryl became my dad’s favorite. Why? Because she was too young to understand what was really going on. And me? I was too old to be his “daddy’s little girl.” So, I became the outcast, the one left behind. Cheryl didn’t stand up for me. Instead, she played the role of the perfect daughter, while my dad and her started ganging up on me. The house became a battleground. I don’t want to go into the details—let’s just say it wasn’t pleasant.
Cheryl got everything. She was daddy’s little princess, getting whatever she wanted, no matter how extravagant. I’ll never forget the Gucci bag he bought her when she was just twelve. I mean, twelve? A Gucci bag for a little girl? Unreal.
I worked my butt off just to survive. My dad never gave me a dime, so I took on part-time jobs everywhere I could—McDonald’s, Wendy’s, even handing out leaflets outside Sears. I can still remember how I smelled like French fries after my shifts. You can never get rid of that stench, no matter how hard you try. But honestly? I’m thankful for those jobs. They taught me how to work hard, how to survive, how to be strong. Those lessons made me who I am today.
I moved out the second I turned 18. It was a hot summer day, and I packed up everything I owned into my old Honda Civic. No goodbye, no looking back. I had $400 in my bank account, but it felt like freedom. I drove off toward California, the wind in my hair, the Pacific breeze refreshing my soul. It was a whole new world out there, one that didn’t include my father or sister.
Fast forward ten years, and things were better. I got my degree and found a job with an IT company. It wasn’t a dream job, but it paid the bills and gave me some stability. I wasn’t exactly thriving, but I was surviving. I built a life for myself, one that didn’t rely on anyone else. But then, out of the blue, I got an email from Cheryl.
I hadn’t heard from her—or my father—in over ten years. Not a single word from them. But here was this email, asking me for help.
It started with the formalities—“Dear Emma,” “I hope this email finds you well,” and my favorite: “Sincerely yours.” It was all so polite, like she hadn’t just abandoned me all those years. The email said she needed money because her kid was sick and needed surgery. Apparently, her ex had run off, and she was stuck with no help. She said she hadn’t talked to our dad for years, after some argument.
I’ll admit, I hesitated. But then she attached a picture of my nephew. He was adorable. And just like that, my heart softened. I didn’t want to be dragged back into the drama, but this kid was innocent. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of the mess our family had become.
After a long night of thinking, I made up my mind. I sent her the money.
A month passed, and I checked in with her. I never got a response. So, I did some digging. I found out where she lived—not far from the house we grew up in. I decided to pay her a visit.
The small-town familiarity hit me the moment I drove through the streets. Things hadn’t changed much, except the people were a bit older. And then, as if fate had a twisted sense of humor, I ran into John, an old classmate, at the gas station.
“Hey. Is that you, Emma?” he said, as he walked toward me.
“John? Wow, barely recognized you,” I said, smiling despite the awkwardness.
“What brings you back here?” he asked. “Came to visit your dad?”
I shrugged. “Nah, just checking on Cheryl and my nephew.”
“Your nephew?” John raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t know she had a kid. I live right across the road from her.”
I froze. Something was off.
Curious, I asked John about my dad. He seemed to know a lot about him, considering their families were close.
“Yeah, your dad goes to Cheryl’s every weekend. He’s been a mess lately—his business partner screwed him over, lost a lot of money. He seemed down for a while, but I think Cheryl helped him out.”
“Wait, his partner screwed him over? When was that?”
“About a month or two ago, I think. I saw him pacing around Cheryl’s driveway, yelling at his phone. Looks like he was having a meltdown.”
Something was definitely off.
I drove to Cheryl’s house. When I arrived, I rang the doorbell. She answered, and I saw my father sitting in the living room, glass of wine in hand. But no sign of any kid.
“Emma? What are you doing here?” Cheryl asked, surprised to see me.
“I came to check on my nephew,” I said, trying to keep things casual.
For a moment, I could see a flicker of panic in her eyes.
“Oh, a friend of mine is babysitting Anthony right now,” she said quickly. “Do you want to come in? We haven’t seen you in years.”
I hesitated. I wanted to walk in, face everything, confront the past. But I wasn’t ready. I told them I wasn’t feeling well and left.
The next day, I ran into John again. This time, he didn’t even acknowledge me. That was weird.
I sat down with him, trying to figure out what was going on. He seemed uncomfortable, avoiding eye contact.
“Is everything okay?” I asked.
“Look, I talked to Cheryl,” he said. “She told me… well, she said you were imagining things. That you needed to go to the hospital.”
I was stunned. “What? How could she say that?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t understand why you’re talking about a kid. She doesn’t have one. She told me you showed up asking about him, and… I don’t want to get involved in all this.”
The betrayal hit me like a punch to the gut. How could she do this to me? After all I’d done for her, for the family?
I pulled out my phone and showed him the email from Cheryl. He went silent for a moment, looking at it.
Finally, he said, “Look, I don’t want to be part of this. Just… leave me out of it.” He left the diner without even touching his food.
Now I’m back in San Francisco, sitting in my apartment, trying to make sense of it all. I drove all the way back here after my conversation with John. What were people in that small town saying about me now? My sister, lying to me, making up a story about a kid just to get my help, then throwing me under the bus? Saying I was crazy?
I don’t know how to feel. Writing this down has helped, but still… I keep wondering, what if I had walked into that house? What if I had confronted Cheryl and dad? Could things have been different? Could I have changed something?
I don’t know. Maybe some things are better left in the past. Maybe we just have to let go and move on. Life doesn’t always give us the answers we want. Sometimes, we just have to accept it.
And keep moving forward.
