I’m not sure how it happened, but my sister and I stopped talking to one another several years ago. I remember a nasty argument during one of the kid’s birthday celebration, but I also have vague recollections of talking to her after that. There were some references from friends that she was upset by her portrayal in my memoir, but I also remember my mom telling me my sister said, “Wow, I thought that would be way worse,” after finishing my book.
I don’t know what we argued about or how or if it caused the separation, but my suspicion is the argument was merely a catalyst to unleash anger and resentments we had been bottling for years. We view our family dynamics very differently and whereas I spend a lot of time analyzing and criticizing our family, my sister doesn’t. She’s always favored my father, I favored my mother. She thinks I’m too sensitive and prone to dramatics, I think she’s in denial and cruel at times. We probably argued about who should cut the cake or something trivial, but I remember during our screaming match several times saying, “What’s this really about?” She never answered the question, but I walked away knowing we had finally broken the family lore that we all get along great and are lucky to have such a close, laid back family. In fact, I went as far as to tell my mom I didn’t like my sister and would never hang out with such a person if they weren’t family.
What I’ve realized lately is that the truth is not as black and white as I would like it to be. My sister and I operate and think very differently, yet we share a core value. I respect her immensely at times, and not at all at others. She makes me laugh harder than anyone I know, but can also make my cry quicker than anyone I know. I like her and I don’t like her. But I never stopped loving her. Even when I hated her.
After our fight, I sent her a few emails, to which I heard nothing in response. Months passed and then a year, ruling out the possibility of casually calling her and inviting her to coffee. Eventually, even my parents gave up on trying to reunite us.
A couple of months ago I told my father, “I don’t see Stacy and I talking again unless you or Mom get sick.” 
“Shit kid,” he responded. “You better work on that then.”
Several weeks after I made this pronouncement, I dreamt that I saw my sister and embraced her in a huge hug. It was the first Stacy dream I had had in years and I knew it meant that we would be talking soon. Unfortunately, both of my prophecies came true.
I learned about my mom’s illness weeks before Stacy did. Although one of my first reactions was to want to call my sister, I was asked not to until my mom could find a “good time to share the news with her.” Before my mom’s lung surgery, she asked all of us to join her for a “celebration” at her hotel room down on Lake Union. To say I had mixed feelings about this celebration is putting it mildly. But I knew I would attend no matter what. It was a way to support my mother and even more importantly, a way to be in the same room with my sister for the first time in years.
I felt relatively calm, even excited about the idea, until I drove up to the hotel. Thank God I had the foresight to ask my boyfriend to accompany me, otherwise I probably would have raced back home. He has the ability to normalize very charged situations, so by holding his hand, I was able to enter the hotel. A quick scan of my parent’s hotel room told me my sister wasn’t there yet, but her kids were. I took all four of the kids to the swimming pool, and again, tried to act as if wearing a fuzzy animal hat in celebration of having my mother sliced open in search of cancerous cells was an every day occurrence. And that the woman who was going to walk through the door at any moment was merely my sister, not someone I hadn’t spoken to in years, nor whose last words to were, “Fuck you.”
The kids and Nik continued to normalize the situation by splashing and swimming (the under nine-years-old set) or chatting with me (Nik), but I couldn’t focus on any of it. Finally, the pool door opened and my sister walked in. I stood up and went to hug her before we could say anything that may stop me from doing so. “It’s really good to see you,” I said, fighting back tears. “Yeah,” she agreed, “Even if it’s a fucked up situation.” And in that moment, the past three years were forgotten about and all that mattered was the current situation with my mom.
We continued to express our fear and anger about my mom’s illness and our confusion about why we were only getting partial information. “She’s our Mom, she wants to protect us,” I said.
“Well that pisses me off and I told her to stop doing that.”
My sister’s response comforted me. It reminded me of her strength and her ability to not be disabled by her emotions, as I am. I remembered countless times in my twenties when I went to her with my problems and she sorted them out for me. When I stopped letting her be my big sister was when we started having problems. I searched and searched for a replacement big sister, but never found one. For the first time in years, I let myself admit that I missed her. And even more importantly, that I wanted my big sister back.
The evening proceeded in a chaotic way. It was touching at times, such as when my dad teared up while thanking us all for being there. Inappropriate at others, such as when my dad chose to reminisce (at length) to Nik about my wedding. And mostly it was bizarre. It’s hard to have a normal conversation with someone when they’re wearing a fuzzy giraffe on their head and you’re not allowed to talk about the reason you’re gathered in the first place. But overall, I was glad to be there. Really glad.
When it was time to leave, I made sure to hug my sister, twice, and tell her I was glad I saw her. After that, I wasn’t sure what would happen between us, I was merely grateful for the evening.
A week or so later, I heard more disparaging and incongruous medical news from my mother. Rather than barraging her with questions, which I knew she may not be able nor willing to answer, I told her I loved her, hung up the phone, and immediately called my sister.
“Screwy,” I said when she answered, “What the hell is up with Mom?” Without thinking about it, I had called her a nickname I hadn’t used in years. Even stranger, was that I called her at all. She paused on the other end for a moment, but then said, “I’m not sure, but it’s really jacked up.” We compared notes on what we knew and didn’t know and shared similar sentiments of fear and disbelief. For the first time in our adult life, we viewed our family and it’s dynamic in the same way.
I’m not sure how our relationship will unfold or if it will crumble tomorrow. My assumption is that we won’t ever talk about why we didn’t talk, we’ll just keep talking about my mom. And that is more than fine with me. I’m trying to let go of my fantasy version of a big sister (and Mom, and partner, and childhood, and and and…) and instead, accept and love the one I have.

Corbin Lewars is the author of Creating a Life: The memoir of a writer and mom in the making, which was nominated for the 2011 PNBA and Washington State book awards. Her essays have been featured in over twenty-five publications including Mothering and Hip Mama. She has been a writing coach and instructor for fifteen years and sees clients in Ballard. She is currently offering a 20 for $20 special, twenty-minute coaching/editing sessions for $20. Contact her for details.