A PORTRAIT OF A STRANGER

     

The way I see myself is different from how my family sees me. To them, I’m a stranger—an anchor they cast out when needed, a scapegoat, a means to an end, or just a convenient way to justify their actions. They give me roles I never agreed to, and I don’t play any part in them. Yet, somehow, when there’s a need to cast blame, create a diversion, or find an advocate for their opinions—whether I agree or not—I’m the one they turn to.

I didn’t even know my grandmother had passed until weeks after her death. The first I heard of it was a phone call from my aunt. She was screaming, accusing me of ransacking my grandmother’s house and stealing money from her bank account. Not long after that, I received a letter from my father, threatening to sue me if I didn’t return his gold records—the ones he assumed I took. I wasn’t worried. I had nothing to do with any of it. But somehow, my name had come up, yet again.

Then, there were the articles that began circulating. Somehow, I was linked to those, too—just because they were signed "one of the twins" and filled with misspelled words. One article, in particular, made it into The Enquirer. It claimed our sister wasn’t really our sister or our father’s true daughter. Even my name was mentioned, as if I had agreed with such a personal claim.

One of my siblings even thinks I’m bitter, angry, and jealous. I believe this helps them justify their own actions by painting me as someone not worth caring about. It allows them to dismiss me easily, as if I’m not their sibling.

I had nothing to do with any of the articles against my family when they first started showing up. Later, when I did start writing my own opinions, I always signed my name because I didn’t want anyone else to be blamed for my thoughts. I didn’t even know about the Enquirer article until my twin brother warned me a day before it was printed. I can’t agree with the article's claims. To me, my sister is my sister—regardless of bloodline. I was adopted, after all. I would be the last person to argue about what makes a “true” family member.

As for being bitter, angry, or jealous? I’m not. I may feel a bit envious of my siblings sometimes, but that’s because I looked up to them when we were growing up. Even my baby sister and her twin. But jealousy? No. I’ve always wanted the best for them. I’ve always supported my family, even when I got caught up in their schemes. I let those schemes play out because I believed that, if anyone truly wanted to know the truth, they’d ask me. They never did. Instead, they accepted whatever they heard, especially if it fit into their agenda.

Does it bother me? Honestly, not really. I don’t play their games. I’m not good at manipulation or gaslighting.  I live the best I can, and I’ve long since stopped seeking my father’s approval. I no longer feel the need to make him proud of me.

I’ve accepted who my siblings are and how they choose to live. Whether I agree with their actions or their beliefs doesn’t matter. They are my family, and I love them. But to them, I will always be a stranger. They see me as they want to see me, not as I am.