My father came from a family of five children. The abuse from their father pushed each of them in different directions, but he and one of his sisters stayed close.
After finishing college, he got a job in the city where she lived, and they decided to share an apartment.
By then, her daughter — my cousin, Anca — had been born.
My father became a father figure to her since my aunt and her husband were already separated.
When my mother came into the picture, my aunt wasn’t thrilled. She said my mom was stuck-up, that she only wanted my dad for his money. But deep down, I think she was just hurt — jealous, maybe — that my father had started his own family and could no longer fill that fatherly role for her child.
For as long as I can remember, my aunt and Anca were a constant presence in my life. We spent many summers at their place, in a small town by the sea. There were plenty of arguments too — once, after a fight with Anca, my aunt kicked us out in the middle of the night.
We drove home and arrived at six in the morning, exhausted and upset. My mom, who had stayed behind, nearly fainted when she saw us — she thought we were peacefully enjoying our seaside vacation.
Eventually, my aunt moved to the United States in search of a better life and took Anca with her. Anca got married there, had a daughter, and later returned to Romania for a short time. After that, for fifteen years, we heard nothing from them.
Then, out of the blue, we started talking again. At first occasionally, then almost every day.
I had found my “big sister” again. We’d stay up late reminiscing, despite the time difference.
She wasn’t happy — fights with her husband, tension with her mother — but she had a job, and her daughter had a future.
When she came back to visit for two weeks, it felt like a piece of my heart had been put back in place.
That first night, we fell asleep in each other’s arms. When she left, we both cried. She promised she’d return the next year, this time with her daughter. We planned a seaside vacation together. I was so excited.
And she kept her promise. The following summer, she arrived with her daughter. When I hugged her, it felt like holding my own child. Everything was ready — the road trip, the laughter, the sea waiting for us.
But the night before we were supposed to leave, I had a panic attack and fainted in the bathroom. I told them I just needed to rest a bit longer and asked if we could leave later in the day. I went to bed, not knowing that everything would fall apart by morning.
At six a.m., I woke up to a strange noise. At first, I thought a neighbor had dropped something heavy.
When I walked out of the bedroom, I realized what was happening — Anca was packing her bags.
She couldn’t handle the change of plans. She didn’t understand what a panic attack was, or that I simply needed time to recover. Her daughter was crying, and Anca looked… transformed — angry, wild, almost ready to hit me. I backed away, confused and scared.
She stormed out of the apartment, yelling in the hallway, then in the street. I stood there frozen. That was the last time I saw her.
Later, I tried reaching out to her daughter, but she wasn’t ready to talk. Maybe someday.
Anca came back into my life only to disappear again — suitcases in hand, carrying all the weight and frustration of a life split between two worlds, never feeling at home in either.
And yet, for a few precious weeks, I truly felt like I had a sister again.