Growing up in a problematic household can lead siblings in two directions. Option A: birds of a feather, as close as can be. or, option B: distant and resentful.

You and your older sister were some version of option B. Distant. But not quite resentful.

When you were kids, she was the only source of real attention or love you could scavenge up. Covering your ears when your mom and dad would fight—“It’s okay, they’re just watching a scary movie.”—sleeping in your bed when you got scared. She’d never once let your dad lay a hand on you—or she tried, sometimes she wasn’t there to stop it. Those days she’d always done what she could to fix it.

She was there holding you when cops had pulled up because of a shot gun accident and your father’s dead body. Natalie had been your saving grace as a child.

But where was she now? You couldn’t help resenting her a little bit when she wasn’t home, leaving you to care for your drunk, sick, couch-camping mother. Why couldn’t she be here now too? Did she stop caring now that you’d grown enough to care for yourself?

You didn’t know how to talk to each other. Communication was never something taught among your dysfunctional mess of a family. Natalie still made some effort to be there, but it wasn’t ever enough.

Natalie was her father’s daughter after all. You couldn’t help cursing his name for being the reason your sister had ceased any semblance of care. You just wished you could talk to her.

You missed being little kids. Playing in the yard and making wonky shaped flower crowns, hiding away while your parents fought. You missed when she would braid your hair for you, because your mother didn’t care enough to try and do it.

You missed your sister.

Perking up as you hear the trailer door swing shut, you listen as the familiar sound of her boots hitting the floor leads to your shared room.

“Hey.” You say, sitting up in your bed upon her entering. “Where were you?”

“Just out with Kevyn.” She replies shortly, flopping back on her bed reaching for her walkman.