I never really liked my own family—call it dysfunctional, if you will. But even with all the mess, I couldn’t wrap my mind around how my sister could betray me—not once, but twice. After everything I did for her and for our dad, this is how she repaid me.
There are times when I wonder, “What if I was born into a different family? Maybe one with parents who actually knew how to be parents.” But, of course, life doesn’t work like that. You don’t always get what you want, no matter how hard you wish for it.
I can’t really blame my mother for leaving, though. She ran away when I was just ten. I guess she had her reasons—my father was abusive, manipulative, and downright cruel. I can’t deny I sometimes wish she had taken me and Cheryl with her. But then again, what’s the point of looking back? The past is done, right? The therapist tells me I shouldn’t dwell on what could’ve been. “Look forward, Emma. Time only goes one way,” she always says.
Still, writing it out might help, so here I am, trying to make sense of it all.
My father—what can I say? He was a monster. He was selfish, arrogant, and cared about no one but himself. He didn’t even have the decency to look after his own kids. I don’t even know what my mom saw in him. Maybe I’ll never know. But it doesn’t matter now.
Cheryl, my little sister, well, I guess you can imagine how she turned out. After mom left, things only got worse. At first, Cheryl and I were close—before everything fell apart. But when Mom left, Dad’s wrath turned on me. He never liked me much, but after she left, it was as if he blamed me for her running away. I didn’t even know why. Maybe he thought I was the reason, even though he never acknowledged that he was the problem.
You’d hear him curse about the stripper when he was drunk, as if that explained everything. But the truth was, it was his fault. He made his own mess.
When Mom left, Cheryl became Dad’s favorite. She was still young, so she didn’t fully understand what had happened. And Dad—he took full advantage of that. I guess I was too old to be turned into Daddy’s little girl. He focused all his attention on Cheryl instead.
That’s when things started going downhill. The two of them would gang up on me, making me feel completely alienated in my own house. It wasn’t easy, and honestly, I don’t want to get into all the details. All I’ll say is, I really wished I had a normal family.
Cheryl, spoiled as she was, got everything she wanted. And Dad—well, as much of a jerk as he was, he wasn’t dumb. He made a fortune by setting up a trading company. The guy had every trait of a psychopathic CEO.
As for Cheryl, she became a product of that. Dad showered her with anything and everything, including a Gucci bag when she was just twelve. Can you imagine? A twelve-year-old with a Gucci bag. It was ridiculous.
Meanwhile, I had to work my butt off for everything. I didn’t get any allowances from Dad, so I started picking up part-time jobs. I worked at McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and even handed out leaflets at Sears. I could still smell like French fries after my shifts. That greasy stench was impossible to get rid of. But looking back, it taught me something valuable. It made me who I am today. It showed me how to fight for what I wanted in life, even when things were hard.
I left home as soon as I could. At eighteen, I packed up and drove off to California in my beat-up Honda Civic. I didn’t even say goodbye. I probably had only $400 to my name, but it was the most freeing feeling ever. The summer breeze, the freedom—everything felt possible.
Ten years later, I had a college degree and a decent job at an IT company. I wouldn’t say it was the dream career, but it was a job. It paid the bills. I didn’t love IT, but we all have to make a living somehow.
Then, out of the blue, I got an email from Cheryl. Ten years had passed, and I hadn’t heard a word from her—or from Dad. Not a single message, not a single call. But now, here was Cheryl, reaching out to me for help.
It was the last thing I expected.
Her email was filled with formalities—“Dear Emma,” “I hope this email finds you well,” and the classic “Sincerely yours.” She said her son was sick and needed surgery, but her ex had left her, taking everything. She mentioned she hadn’t spoken to Dad for years, but now she was in a tough spot and needed my help.
At first, I hesitated. But then, I saw the attachment—my nephew’s picture. He was adorable. How could I say no to that?
After thinking it over, I decided to send the money. It wasn’t about Cheryl, but about the kid. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of the mess between us.
A month later, I sent another email, asking if everything was okay with the surgery. I never heard back. So, I did some digging. I found out Cheryl hadn’t moved far—just a few blocks from our old place. I decided to visit her.
The thing about small towns is that nothing really changes. Even after ten years, the same people, the same places—they were all there, like time had stood still. As I drove through the town, I thought I recognized some of the old shops and faces.
Then, fate had its way. Before I could even reach Cheryl’s house, I ran into John. He was an old classmate of mine, and his mom and my dad had been neighbors. He was shocked to see me.
“Hey, is that you, Emma?” he said, getting out of his car.
“John? Wow, it’s been ages,” I said.
“What brought you back here? You came to see your old man?” he asked.
I could see the confusion in his eyes, so I kept it light. “Nah, just checking in on Cheryl and my nephew.”
“Your nephew?” he said, squinting at me. “I didn’t even know Cheryl had a kid.”
Something didn’t sit right with me. That didn’t add up.
I asked him about my dad, and John gave me a strange look. “Yeah, he goes to Cheryl’s every weekend. I heard his business partner screwed him over. Lost a lot of money. He seemed down for a while, but now he’s alright. I think Cheryl helped him out.”
“Wait,” I said, “when did that happen?”
“Maybe a month or two ago. I saw him walking around Cheryl’s driveway, yelling at his phone. Must’ve been around then.”
This whole thing was starting to feel weirder by the minute.
I needed answers, so I went straight to Cheryl’s house. I rang the doorbell. She opened it, and there, sitting in the living room with a glass of wine in his hand, was my father. No sign of any kid.
Cheryl was shocked to see me. “Emma? What are you doing here?”
“Just wanted to check on my nephew,” I said, keeping my voice calm.
For a split second, I saw it in her eyes—she was hiding something.
“Oh, a friend of mine is watching him,” she said quickly. “Do you want to come in? It’s been years.”
I hesitated. I was standing on the edge of a decision. Just one step into that house, and maybe, just maybe, I could have dealt with everything. But I wasn’t ready for that.
“I’m not feeling too well,” I said, and turned back to my car. I drove to a nearby motel to think.
The next day, I bumped into John again at a diner. This time, he acted differently. He saw me, then turned away without saying a word.
I was confused. We were good friends back in the day. What was going on?
I walked over to him and asked, “John, what’s up? Everything okay?”
He looked uncomfortable. “I spoke to Cheryl last night. She told me why you left.”
I stared at him, waiting for more.
“She said you were imagining things. That they had to send you away to the hospital,” he said quietly.
“What?” I couldn’t believe it. “What do you mean?”
“She said you showed up out of nowhere, asking about her kid. She said you were crazy. I don’t want any trouble, Emma.”
I felt my stomach drop. Was Cheryl really lying like that? After everything I did for her?
“Wait,” I said, grabbing my phone. I showed John the email Cheryl had sent me. He read it, and for a moment, he was silent. Then he sighed.
“Look, Emma. This isn’t my business. Just leave me out of it,” he said, standing up and leaving without even touching his pancakes.
And here I am, back in San Francisco. I drove all the way back after that. I can’t shake off the feeling that everyone in that town is talking about me. Cheryl—my own sister—lied to me, used me, and then threw me under the bus. It’s hard to believe.
I don’t know how I should feel about all of this. Writing it down has helped, but the question still lingers: Did I have a chance to fix everything if I had gone inside that house? Could things have turned out differently?
I don’t know. I really don’t.
What can we learn from this?
Sometimes, there’s just nothing we can do to change things. We can’t fix the past. All we can do is let go and move forward. Life goes on, no matter how much we wish we could go back.
