…my sister. Emily.
I sat in the dark living room with the remote in my hand for a very long time.
Rebecca, it turned out, wasn’t the woman in the photos. Rebecca was the little girl. Twelve years old. With my sister’s freckles and my husband’s chin. The TV profile was named “Daniel and Rebecca” because Daniel had set it up for her, on a trip, so she could watch cartoons.
My sister, Emily, is three years younger than me. Thirteen years ago, she moved to a town two hours away. She told our family she’d had two children through a sperm donor. She said she wanted to be a single mom. We all thought she was so brave. I threw her baby shower. Twice.
I knew the house in the photos. I’d been to it. For birthday parties. For Thanksgiving. Daniel had always found an excuse not to come. “Work.” “My back.” “You go ahead, you two need sister time.”
The wedding photo was from twelve years ago. A small ceremony on a beach. Not legal, I found out later. Just “symbolic.” Emily in a white dress. My husband in the gray suit I’d bought him for our tenth anniversary.
I didn’t wake him up. I took photos of everything on my phone. I emailed them to myself. And at 6 a.m., I drove two hours to my sister’s house.
She opened the door in her bathrobe. She saw my face, and she knew.
We sat at her kitchen table, the one I’d eaten at for thirteen Thanksgivings. She cried. She said it had started before her kids were born. She said Daniel had promised every year that he’d leave me. She said she knew it was wrong. She said she loved him.
“You let me throw you two baby showers,” I said. “For my husband’s children.”
She didn’t have anything to say to that.
I filed for divorce that week. My lawyer was thorough. Daniel had been supporting a second household for thirteen years with our joint money. The judge took that very seriously.
I haven’t spoken to Emily since that morning. My mother tries to bring us together every holiday. I let her try.
The hardest part was the kids. Rebecca and her little brother, Owen. My niece and nephew, who are also my stepchildren, somehow. They didn’t ask for any of this. Last spring, Rebecca sent me a letter in careful handwriting. “I’m sorry about my mom and dad. You were always my favorite aunt. Are you still?”
I wrote back that I was. I meant it. I take them to the movies once a month now. Just the three of us.
On our last outing, Rebecca asked me if I’d ever forgive her mom.
“I don’t know,” I told her honestly. “But I’ll never stop being your aunt. That part’s not up to anybody else.”
