The Sister Wound

 Some wounds are easy to name.

This one isn’t.

When I think of my sister, I think of confusion.

As children, we did not get along. I didn’t trust her, and she likely didn’t trust me.

As adults, things became more complicated.

We laughed together. Shared holidays, conversations, and pieces of our lives. At times, she felt like a friend.

And yet, beneath the surface, something never felt safe.

I often felt two versions of my sister existed at once—the one who loved me to my face and the one who spoke differently when I wasn’t in the room.

For most of my life, I pushed those feelings aside.

I wanted to believe we were closer than we were.

She was often the first person I called when I was hurting. I shared secrets, fears, and parts of myself that were precious to me.

Again and again, I chose trust.

And again and again, something inside me felt betrayed.

For sixty years, I swallowed that truth.

Not because I didn’t see it.

Because I didn’t want to.

The loss of a sister’s love is a painful thing to face.

Eventually, something inside me could no longer pretend.

The relationship ended.

Not with understanding.

Not with closure.

Just with a quiet recognition that I could no longer abandon myself to preserve the illusion of what I wished our relationship could be.

Today, I don’t know if I am completely over the hurt.

The betrayal.

The disappointment.

Perhaps healing is not about erasing those feelings.

Perhaps it is about allowing them to be true.

And sitting with them long enough to discover what remains after the grief has spoken.