Chapter 2 Family ties

Chapter 2

Living with my mom back in Pittsburgh, I always felt like nothing I did could make her love me the way she loved Lucille. Lucille had the better looks, the perfect grades, and the attention of every boy worth noticing. We were just two years apart in school, but she shone so brightly that no one even realized I existed. Even now, some of our old classmates don't believe we're sisters.

Are we tho??

Sometimes I ask if we are really sisters.

Lucille's a resident surgeon at a big hospital in New York. She's been to Spain, to Paris- Paris where she recently got engaged. I know all this because I stalk her on Instagram. My mom couldn't stop comparing us, and I'm not even sure if I'm jealous... or maybe I am. Things just seem to fall into place for her, like life is some red carpet rolled out under her feet. Me? I struggle so hard, and still, I've got nothing to show for it.

Nothing at all.

Even my baby left me-eighteen weeks in. Maybe baby Lilly knew I'd be a shitty mom. Maybe she knew I was alone and unloved from the start. I don't think anyone would want me as a mom. I wouldn't even want myself as my mom.

God, I miss Freddie.

It was really over. My life was over.

I slid from the couch to the floor and cried until I passed out.

When I woke up, it was past noon. My body ached, my head was spinning, and I felt nothing from the waist down. Hunger clawed at my stomach. I dragged myself to the fridge and found leftover rice. I nuked it in the microwave and was too hungry to wait for utensils-I just dug in with my fingers, eating like I'd been on the streets for days.

I checked my phone. No missed calls. Not from Freddie. Not even from work. Had no one noticed I wasn't there? Or maybe they did and just didn't care. Maybe things were easier for everyone without me.

Maybe the world had more to gain with me gone.

I opened Instagram and logged into the fake account I created solely to stalk Lucille. No profile picture, no followers-just a ghost watching from the sidelines. She had just posted birthday photos. My mom had flown to New York to celebrate with her. There they were-Lucille, her fiancé, and our mom, smiling like they were in some Hallmark card. It felt like a slap in the face. My mom hadn't even called me on my birthday. Not a single text. But here she was, celebrating with Lucille like I didn't exist.

I felt rage.

Was I really that easy to give up on?

I know I was difficult. I know I made things hard. But I was still her daughter. Didn't that mean something? Does carrying me nine months not mean something to her. It clearly doesn't. I meant nothing to her. Nothing at all.

When I left for college, I think we all silently agreed the ties were cut. We hardly spoke even when we lived under the same roof. I spent years trying to be the kind of daughter my mom could be proud of. For years I tried to be like her perfect daughter Lucille. God knows I tried. I studied harder. I prayed harder. I joined the choir even though I didn't have the voice. But the grades never came, and the love never followed. Eventually, I gave up. I stopped trying to be perfect. Trying to be like Lucille was draining the life out of me. Instead of being perfect, I made it my mission to piss my mom off.

I'm 26 and four months now. That's 9,614 days on this Earth. And I can count on one hand how many of those days I was genuinely happy. There weren't many happy days.

No day could beat the day I found out about my pregnancy. That day was my happiest day. I think it was Freddie's happiest day too.

Another happy day was the day Freddie called me. He'd broken up with me before college, said long-distance wouldn't work. But he called to say he wanted to try again. That maybe we were worth the fight. I remember feeling like I mattered, like I wasn't just an afterthought in someone else's life.

Another was when Mom took us to visit Granny. I was little then. Granny picked me up and whispered that I was her favorite grandkid. I held onto that memory like a warm coat in a snowstorm. Anytime I replayed it in my head, I smiled.

The other three happiest days? They were when I successfully pissed off my mom.

There was this one day when the new priest came to our house. Mom was a full-time "saint" at St. Peter's Parish. She was known for her big donations and her consistency. The priest was doing rounds, meeting his new flock. I heard her calling Lucille out, introducing her like some prodigy. "Top of her class, sings in the choir," all that crap. The priest beamed and said she'd raised Lucille right, he said she was a good mother and a good christian that God must be proud of her.

I was listening from my room, burning with shame and fury. She never mentioned me. Didn't even acknowledge I existed. Was she that ashamed of me?

At this point I felt rage.

So I made sure they saw me.

I grabbed my weed, lit it, messed up my hair, and stumbled out of my room like I was drunk. I walked straight into the living room, the smoke trailing behind me like a middle finger. I'll never forget the look on her face-like she'd seen the devil. The priest looked away. Lucille looked through me.

I couldn't read Lucille's face, she wasn't ashamed. I think she wanted to laugh but couldn't bear to hurt my mom's feelings more. At the same time she was angry at me for the shame I brought to the family in front of the priest.

I didn't care though. Today wasn't one of the days I'd hide in my room because we had a guest. Today was a day I chose to be seen.

And for once in a long time, I wasn't invisible.

For once, I mattered-even if it was for all the wrong reasons.