Actually this is not a melodramatic foray, but a fact. My sister fell in love and despite the fit I threw because I felt she was too young, got married to a boy from Colorado. Before we knew it, her writing became no more and she was a mother of two sons.
It’s an ongoing frustration I have – the fact that she no longer writes but spends her day catering to those two monkeys (whom I adore endlessly.) I have, on more than one occasion, argued with her about the fact that she gave up a passion, a deep sincere love which was writing to have a family – a decision I don’t understand – but she argues that her passion is now being a mom. I wish I could comprehend that, but as someone whose potential attempt at motherhood is years away, I just can’t. To me, it’s foreign and all I can see is what she gave up; all she can see is what she didn’t.
I would never dare to compare myself to a Brontë these days, as I know for a fact it’s not in the cards. I also would never dare to wager a bet on my sister pursuing writing again, because, well, it’s also not in the cards. As I try to accept the choices she made, (with my mother consistently telling me that “you can’t live someone else’s life”), I am still conflicted by it all. A published piece you wrote or a day as a mom? I’ll take the former, thanks. This difference in opinion has led to a full on feeling of anger sometimes that my sister thought it “OK,” to abandon a potential career in something at which she was really great. Granted, she’s an amazing mother (because she’s amazing at everything she does), but she’s still no longer a writer – and that’s where my heart breaks. I see it as giving up on dreams; again, she sees it as dreams changing.
No matter what my sister chooses, I will always have her back. She is the greatest love of my life and all else comes second to me – even writing. I know that I will always struggle with the choices she made, the writing she gave up, but I have tried to accept what has come of it. I also know that it will forever be an argument for us, but such is life.
The only saving grace of it all are my nephews. Whenever I’m face to face with those two, my heart swells and I’m grateful my sister chose marriage and babies instead of writing. They may be nasty, little germ-ridden creatures who call me Auntie Bob instead of Mandy, but fuck, I know I would never have it any other way. For those two alone, she having given up writing is worth it.