I never liked my own family. You could call us dysfunctional, broken, maybe even cursed—but I just called it my life. Still, even with all the messed-up things we went through, I never thought my sister would betray me like this. And not just once… twice. After everything I did for her. After everything I did for our father, too.
Sometimes I imagine what life could’ve been like if I had better parents. You know, ones who actually knew how to love and care for their children. But life doesn’t handpick families for you. You get what you get. And what I got was a disaster.
I try not to blame my mom too much. She left when I was ten—disappeared without a goodbye. People say she ran away because Dad was abusive and manipulative. I believe it. I still wish she had taken me and Cheryl with her, but she didn’t. She left us behind with him. And now? There’s no use crying over the past.
My therapist told me the same thing over and over again:
“Don’t look back on what you can’t change. Time only moves forward.”
She also told me:
“Writing about it might help you process the pain.”
So… here I am. Writing this down. Trying to breathe through the heartache.
My father—God, where do I even begin? He was a cruel man. Manipulative, selfish, arrogant… He only cared about himself. He thought the world revolved around his needs, his success. Sometimes I lie awake wondering how my mom ever married him in the first place. I’ll never understand it.
Now, my little sister Cheryl? She didn’t stand a chance. Growing up in that toxic house did something to her. When we were kids, we were close. We’d hide under the covers when Dad yelled, whispering secrets to each other, promising to run away together someday. But after Mom left, things changed.
Dad started to hate me more. I don’t even know why. Maybe he blamed me for Mom’s disappearance. He never looked at himself as the problem. Sometimes, when he was drunk, he’d blame some stripper he met at a club.
“She made your mother jealous,” he’d slur, laughing bitterly.
But let’s be real—he was the problem. Always had been.
After Mom left, Cheryl became his favorite. She was younger—easier to mold. I was too old to be turned into “daddy’s little girl.” So he poured all his attention into her and left me in the dark. And Cheryl? She changed. Fast.
They turned on me together. Made me feel like a stranger in my own home. Cheryl would side with him on everything. If I said it was raining, she’d say it was sunny just to make me look wrong. I’m not gonna dive into every detail of what they did—some things are still too painful to say. Just know I wouldn’t wish that kind of childhood on my worst enemy.
Dad was terrible, sure, but he wasn’t stupid. He started a trading company and made a fortune. Typical cold-blooded businessman—probably stepped on a hundred people to get to the top. Cheryl? She grew up spoiled beyond belief.
When she was 12, he gave her a Gucci bag. A real one.
Can you imagine? A twelve-year-old walking around like she’s heading to Milan Fashion Week.
While Cheryl got everything she wanted and more, I had to fight for every dollar. Dad never gave me a cent. So I got part-time jobs. I flipped burgers at McDonald’s, worked the register at Wendy’s, and even handed out flyers outside of Sears. I remember coming home every night smelling like deep-fried potatoes. That greasy scent never left me, no matter how hard I scrubbed.
But you know what? I’m grateful. That struggle built me. It taught me how to survive, how to be strong when everything falls apart.
The second I turned eighteen, I packed up everything I owned and left. It was a hot summer day—I remember sweat dripping down my back as I loaded my beat-up Honda Civic. I didn’t even say goodbye. I had four hundred bucks in my account and a dream of freedom. I drove straight to California, windows down, wind in my hair. I’d never felt so free.
Fast forward ten years. I had a degree, a job in IT, and a small apartment in San Francisco. Nothing fancy, but I built it with my own hands. IT wasn’t my passion, but it paid the bills. And I was okay. Or so I thought.
Then came the email.
Cheryl.
I hadn’t heard from her or Dad in ten years. Not a word. Not a postcard. Not even a text on my birthday. And now, out of the blue, she emailed me.
It started off all polite and fake.
“Dear Emma, I hope this message finds you well…”
My favorite part?
“Sincerely yours.”
I almost laughed. Then I read on. She said her kid was sick. Needed surgery. Her ex ran off with some woman and left her broke. She said she hadn’t talked to Dad in years because of some argument. She needed help. My help.
I hesitated. Of course I did. But then I opened the attachment she sent—a photo of her son. My nephew. Big brown eyes. Chubby cheeks. Completely innocent.
That picture haunted me.
That night I couldn’t sleep. I kept asking myself what kind of person I wanted to be. I hated my family, yes—but that little boy hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t deserve to suffer because the adults around him were disasters.
So I wired her the money.
A month later, I emailed her to ask how the surgery went. Nothing. No reply. Radio silence.
That’s when I started to worry. I searched online and found her address. She hadn’t moved far—just six or seven blocks from our old place. So I drove back to that little town I once ran from.
It was eerie. The town looked the same. Same stores, same people—just older. And maybe more tired.
Then, right before I reached Cheryl’s house, I ran into John.
John was a classmate from high school. His mom and my dad were neighbors. He recognized me at the gas station.
“Hey. Is that you, Emma?” he asked, stepping out of his truck.
“John? Wow, I barely recognized you,” I said, trying to smile.
“What brings you back here? Come to visit your old man?”
“No, just checking in on Cheryl… and my nephew.”
His smile froze.
“Your nephew? Cheryl has a kid?” he asked, puzzled. “That’s weird—I live across the street. I would’ve known.”
My stomach dropped.
Trying to keep calm, I asked about my father. John said he still visited Cheryl’s house every weekend. Apparently, Dad’s business partner had screwed him over and he lost a ton of money. But Cheryl “bailed him out.”
“That happened maybe a month ago,” John said. “I saw him pacing Cheryl’s driveway, yelling into his phone like a maniac.”
That was right after I sent the money.
I drove straight to Cheryl’s house and rang the doorbell.
She opened the door, eyes wide.
“Emma? What’re you doing here?”
“Just checking on my nephew.”
She hesitated. I saw the panic flash in her eyes.
“Oh… a friend is babysitting Anthony,” she said. “Come in, we haven’t seen you in years.”
Behind her, I saw Dad—sitting in the living room, sipping wine. Smirking. And no kid in sight.
I couldn’t do it. I told them I wasn’t feeling well and left. Checked into a motel nearby.
The next morning, I saw John again—this time at a diner. He looked right at me… then turned away. No hello. Just turned and walked.
That was weird. We’d had a decent chat yesterday. I walked over to his table.
“Hey man, what’s going on?” I asked, confused.
He wouldn’t look at me.
“I talked to Cheryl last night…” he mumbled.
“And?”
“She told me why you left… she said you were sick. That you imagined the whole thing. That there is no kid. That they had to send you away… to a hospital.”
My heart nearly stopped.
“What?!”
“She said you showed up ranting about a kid that doesn’t exist…”
I pulled out my phone, opened the email she sent, and showed it to him. He stared at the screen in silence.
Then he stood up.
“I… just leave me out of this,” he said and walked out, pancakes untouched.
And now? I’m back in San Francisco, sitting in my apartment, staring out the window. I don’t know what to feel.
Did my sister really make up a whole story—use a fake photo—just to trick me into giving her money? To help our father? The same man who never loved me?
Did she really tell people I was crazy?
I still wonder what might’ve happened if I had stepped inside that house. Would it have changed anything? Could I have fixed the mess between us?
I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know.
What did I learn from this?
Sometimes, you just have to let go. You can’t fix people who don’t want to be fixed. You can’t rewrite the past. But you can choose what to do next.
Look forward. Keep walking. One step at a time.
And never forget who you are, no matter what they say.
