I won’t speak to my selfish sister – but I still miss her

I was in the middle of a Tesco aisle when I noticed my phone ringing and my dad’s number flashed on the screen.  

After exchanging some brief pleasantries, the purpose of the call became clear: ‘One of your uncles has died.’  

I knew that he’d had some heart trouble, but I was not expecting this. 

I found myself remembering his mane of a beard that we would playfully rub against my only sister – Chloe* – and my cheeks as young kids. He’d hold her upside down, as she laughed hysterically.  

When I ended the call, a completely left-field unbidden thought came to me. While deciphering the scrawl of my shopping list, I thought: ‘I wish I could call Chloe’.  

I had not seen or spoken to her for a few years after I cut her off. But I couldn’t bring myself to make the call. In fact, I wasn’t sure I even had her updated phone number anymore.  

So, I was left to my own thoughts; not just of my uncle, but of my sister and our estrangement.  

Growing up, my sister and I were described as either best friends or worst enemies, depending on the hour of the day. We’d have dance parties and play a million different types of guessing games, bonding over our mutual love of ice skating and horse riding.   

But then, as we got older, I started to notice things that I didn’t like. There were the typical sibling things of teasing me and making fun of my weight.

Then she did something incredibly cruel.  

At the beginning of my teenage years, I was questioning my sexuality but hadn’t shared that with anyone yet.

So at the time, I had stuck magazine photos from Heat Magazine’s ‘Hunk of the Week’ in my diary that I had secreted away.

Chloe stole it from the room I was staying in during a family holiday and decided to make pointed comments about things I had written, quoting me, and roping a younger cousin in too.

Humiliating as it was, I don’t recall much of the aftermath. I was too busy sulking to remember how it was dealt with or how Chloe was reprimanded. Like all good families, it was never mentioned again. 

Clearly, I’ve been holding that grudge for longer than I realised.  

As adults, I started to notice she did selfish things like chat for a whole phone call about her own life, but then we would seemingly run out of time when it was my turn to share. 

Or not meeting up with our dad – who raised us as a single parent – on special occasions like Father’s Day or Christmas, despite promising to. 

What finally broke our relationship in my eyes was when I had my first freelance writing piece commissioned in the early 2020s about my experience buying a sex toy. I excitedly told Dad about it – but omitted the sex toy part because I didn’t really need him knowing about that – and he told me how proud he was of me. 

When the piece was actually published, Chloe couldn’t wait to try to tell him all about it – without even checking first with me, given the sensitive topic. I can only assume she did this to embarrass me. 

That was the final straw and I realised that I couldn’t have any sort of relationship with Chloe anymore – so I decided to cut her off without truly explaining why. 

I began blocking Chloe on everything I could – her phone number, social media, even email. But before I could complete it all, she must’ve realised what I was doing and sent me a message via iMessage: ‘I didn’t realise things were that bad between us’. 

I decided not to reply. 

We haven’t spoken since, except when she decided to send a final courtesy message through iMessage: ‘I assume you don’t want this box of your books so I’m taking them to a charity shop. Cheers.’ 

That was more than five years ago. In fact, Dad has since distanced himself from Chloe, too. 

Ever since, there have been no surprise visits, cards or letters. Even on a milestone birthday recently, I had a nauseating mix of paranoia and hope that she would acknowledge it. But she didn’t.  

Family and mutual friends knew that we’d fallen out, so not mentioning her had become an unwritten social rule. Over time, she didn’t enter my daily thoughts anymore. 

Then came our uncle’s death a few years after I stopped speaking to Chloe and I started to think about her again – even contemplating contacting her. 

But would it open up a can of worms? Could I bite my tongue about our issues? Could she? Would sharing our grief be lost in trying to decide whose fault our estrangement had been?  

Ultimately, I decided not to because I felt like it would be asking to be hurt and upset. 

As for our uncle’s funeral, I didn’t have to see her there because it was during Covid-19 lockdowns, so I was at home watching through a livestream.  

At the end of the day, of course, there’ll be moments where I think about Chloe. Like when I rewatch a film that we used to love, or see friends with close sibling relationships and wonder if we could ever have that, too. 

The difficulty for me in this situation is understanding why I don’t act upon reaching out to her. If I really missed my sister and wanted to talk to her, I could find a way to reconnect. 

It’s knowing that I would be going back to someone who hurt me time and time again that stops me in my tracks. So, I have come to realise that I miss who she had been to me. 

I miss what our relationship as adults could’ve been like. But a relationship cannot exist on nostalgia and possibilities alone. 

The thing is, I don’t know my sister anymore, so I don’t know if I’m missing out on a relationship with someone who’s changed for the better. 

Estrangement is not the clear-cut process I thought it was. Once you’ve learnt to separate the yearning from the reality, I’ve found it becomes clearer and easier to bear. 

Sometimes I miss my sister, but that doesn’t mean a reconciliation is in store. Of course, I never say never. 

But the steps and the work that would have to lead to a reconciliation – on both my sister’s and my side – are plentiful. If she has the will to change and I have the ability to accept and trust again, there could be a possible future for us. 

For now, I’m more than happy with how things are.

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