I’ve never liked my family. You could call it dysfunctional—but honestly, that word feels too soft for what we were. Still, no matter how messy things were, I never imagined that my own sister would betray me—not once, but twice. And this, after everything I did to help her and our father.
Sometimes I wonder what life would’ve been like if I’d been born into a different family. A better one. Parents who actually knew how to love, how to support their kids. But you don’t get to pick your parents, right? Life just hands you the cards and says, “Good luck.”
I try not to blame my mother. She left us when I was ten. One day she was there, the next—gone. I heard whispers that she ran because Dad was controlling and abusive. I don’t doubt it. Part of me wishes she’d taken Cheryl and me with her, but she didn’t. And I’ve had to live with that ever since.
“It’s no use thinking about what could’ve been,” my therapist always says. “Time moves forward. There’s no rewinding. Focus on what can be changed.”
She also told me that writing might help. So here I am, trying.
My father… he was cruel. Manipulative. The kind of man who always made everything about himself. Selfish, arrogant, and angry. Sometimes I ask myself how my mom ever fell in love with someone like that. I’ll probably never know.
My sister Cheryl grew up under the same roof, but it affected her differently. We were close when we were little—before Mom left. After that? Everything changed.
Dad didn’t like me. Scratch that—he hated me. And after Mom left, that hate only grew worse. I think he blamed me. Maybe he told himself I drove her away. He never once considered that he might’ve been the problem.
Sometimes, when he was drunk, he’d mutter something about a stripper ruining his marriage. Classic Dad—always blaming someone else. But we all know it takes two to tango. Or, in his case, two for a lap dance.
After Mom left, Cheryl became his golden child. She was younger, still innocent. Too young to understand what was really going on. Me? I was too old, too stubborn to play the “daddy’s little girl” role. So he focused all his attention on Cheryl and pushed me out.
That’s when everything really fell apart. They were like a team—Dad and Cheryl. Ganging up on me. I was the outsider in my own home. I won’t go into all the details, because honestly, they still hurt. Just know it was awful. There were nights I cried myself to sleep, wondering why I even existed in that house.
Cheryl grew up spoiled. That’s the thing about my dad—he was a jerk, but he wasn’t dumb. He ran a successful trading company and made a lot of money. Classic narcissistic CEO type.
And Cheryl? She had everything. I remember when she turned twelve, and Dad bought her a Gucci bag. Who does that? A middle schooler with a luxury purse. Meanwhile, I was saving up coins for a bus pass.
She became a brat. A dysfunctional, entitled brat.
As for me, I had to work for everything. No allowance, no help. I took jobs wherever I could. Flipping burgers at McDonald’s, running the register at Wendy’s, handing out flyers outside Sears. I’d come home smelling like fries and desperation.
But you know what? Those years made me stronger. They taught me how to survive. How to rely on myself.
I left home at 18. It was the middle of a scorching summer. I packed my bags, got in my rusty Honda Civic, and drove west to California. I had maybe $400 to my name, but I’ve never felt so free. I still remember the salty breeze on the Pacific Coast, blowing through the windows as I screamed out my freedom into the sky.
Ten years later, I had my college degree and a decent job at an IT company. Was it my dream job? No. But it paid the bills, and I was finally stable.
That’s when I got the email from Cheryl.
Ten years. Ten. No calls. No texts. Nothing. And suddenly, an email.
It started off overly formal:
“Dear Emma,
I hope this message finds you well.”
My favorite part?
“Sincerely yours.”
I almost laughed.
She said her son was sick. He needed surgery. Her ex had left her and taken everything. She said she wasn’t speaking to Dad anymore after some big argument and had no one else to turn to.
Attached was a photo. A little boy. My nephew.
He looked adorable. Big eyes. Innocent.
I sat up all night thinking about what to do. I didn’t care about Cheryl. I didn’t care about Dad. But the kid—he didn’t deserve to suffer. He had nothing to do with this mess.
So I wired her the money.
A month later, I sent her an email to check in. No reply.
I got worried. So I did some digging and found out she was still living just six or seven blocks away from our old house. Same town. That was all the push I needed—I drove down to see her.
Small towns don’t change much. The buildings fade, people age, but everything feels the same. Like time forgot the place.
Before I could reach Cheryl’s house, I stopped to fuel up and ran into John—an old classmate.
“Emma?” he said, squinting. “Is that really you?”
“John? Wow, it’s been years!”
“What brings you back?” he asked. “Visiting your dad?”
I shook my head. “Nah. I came to check on Cheryl. And… her kid.”
He blinked. “Cheryl has a kid?”
My heart sank.
“She never mentioned having a child,” he added. “And I live right across the street from her.”
Alarm bells started ringing in my head.
Then I asked about Dad.
“Oh, he’s been around,” John said casually. “Lost a bunch of money after his partner screwed him over. Cheryl helped him out though.”
“Wait—when did this happen?”
“Couple months ago, I think? Saw him yelling on his phone in Cheryl’s driveway.”
Everything clicked.
I drove straight to Cheryl’s.
She opened the door and froze. “Emma? What’re you doing here?”
“I came to check on my nephew,” I said, watching her reaction.
Her eyes shifted.
“Oh… he’s with a friend right now,” she said quickly. “Babysitting. You want to come in? We haven’t seen you in years.”
And just behind her, through the doorway—I saw him. My father. Sitting on the couch. Wine in hand. No kid in sight.
I hesitated. One step and I’d be inside. One step and maybe I’d finally face all that pain. Maybe I’d get some answers.
But I couldn’t do it.
“I’m not feeling well,” I said quietly, then turned around and left.
That night, I stayed at a motel. Tried to sleep, but my mind raced.
The next morning, I went to a diner—and bumped into John again. Only this time, he avoided me. Didn’t even say hi. Just turned his back.
I walked up to him. “Hey, what’s going on?”
He avoided my eyes. “Emma… I talked to Cheryl last night. About her kid.”
I froze. “And?”
“She told me… well, she said you made it up. That you showed up years ago saying crazy stuff. She said they had to send you to a hospital.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“She said you imagined the kid. That you were… unwell.”
My mouth went dry. My hands trembled. I couldn’t believe it. After all I’d done—she lied about me.
“She doesn’t have a kid,” he said. “And honestly, I don’t know what to believe now.”
I pulled out my phone, opened the email, and showed him the message she’d sent me.
He read it silently, then looked up, stunned.
“Look,” he mumbled, “this isn’t my business. I—I gotta go.” And just like that, he left, leaving his pancakes untouched.
So now here I am. Back in San Francisco. In my apartment. Alone again.
I drove straight home after that diner visit. I couldn’t stand being in that town for one more second.
Can you believe it? Cheryl made up a lie to get money out of me, used our father as bait, and when confronted—told people I was insane. That I imagined it all. That I needed help.
I don’t even know how to feel. Angry? Hurt? Numb?
Writing this all down does help, I think. But a small part of me still wonders—what if I had stepped into the house? What if I had stayed? Would things be different?
I don’t know. I really don’t.
What can we take away from this?
Sometimes you just have to let go. You can’t change people. You can’t undo the past. But you can choose to move forward. To stop looking back.
Let go of what’s broken. Start living.
Time only goes one way.
And so should we.
