It was a cloudless, starry night. January 5th, 1991, if you want to be exact. On that frigid winter night, a baby girl was born. On that night, I was born.
At the tender age of two, my parents divorced. I was too young to understand, but suddenly, my weeks were spent with Father, and my weekends were spent across town with Mom.
I loved the weekends. Father was strict and proper, but Mom let me get messy, let me play in her garden and “help” her, despite all the flowers I uprooted. There was always disappointment Sunday nights, when I would cling to Mom, trying to stay while she got me ready for Father coming to pick me up the next day.
When I was four, Father remarried. Stepmother was never unkind to me, but she didn’t seem pleased by my existence either. Nine months later, my baby sister Celeste was born.
Mom never remarried. She always said she was happy with just me.
When I was five, Christian was born. I started spending more time with Mom, under the pretense of Father was busy with Christian and Celeste, and some silly custody things that I never quite understood. I didn’t care. I got to spend more time with Mom and her wonderful garden, and children never care about the reasons why.
The summer that I was seven, I learned that Mom’s kind old neighbors were moving out and selling the house. I was devastated.
That autumn, a new family moved in. Two adults, an older girl, and two boys that looked to be about my age. Mom brought me along to go greet them. And as I shyly hid behind Mom’s leg, I saw you for the first time. You were the exact opposite of me, brave where I was shy, coming up to me and saying hi. I felt more kinship with your brother at that moment, as he hid behind you and wished you wouldn’t talk so much. Mom and the other woman (whom I later learned was your mother) shooed us all off to play and become acquainted.
I’m sure Mom regretted that when she saw the state of her flowerbeds later that afternoon, but she just sighed and patted our heads. “They were on their last legs anyways,” she told us, smiling at our dirty hands and the flowers we held for her. “Frost would have killed them. Now we can keep them in a vase for a while.” The three of us exchanged proud grins as Mom walked you two back home.
I never got to see you at school. Father preferred to send me to posh schools that only offered the best education, as he had the money to do so. But on my days at Mom’s house, we would sit in our backyards and compare classes, and you would tell me about the day’s adventures I had missed. Your brother was quick to point out your own shortcomings in those stories. You hated when he did that. I thought it was adorable. I treasured those stories you told, bringing splashes of color to my life.
When we were twelve, I convinced Mom and you begged your parents, and we stayed up late to watch the meteor shower. Your brother was sick and kept inside on your mother’s orders, so it was just us two, laying amongst Mom’s flowers, watching tiny streaks of silver cross the dark blue sky. And I was suddenly shy again, and I curled closer to your warmth, and cautiously grabbed your hand. You grinned at me before turning your pretty eyes back to the stars. I’ll never tell you what I wished that night. All I’ll say is that wish came true.
And when Mom came out and found us asleep, curled up next to each other on the ground, she just draped a few blankets over us and let us sleep. Maybe she knew more than she told me. I’ll never know, and she’ll never admit to anything.
Christmas Eve when I was sixteen. Your parents had a Christmas party, and of course Mom and I attended. When you opened the door, your eyes lit up, and you immediately swept me up and away into the house. I didn’t mind; I trusted you, and so did Mom. Most of that night was a blur, talking to familiar neighbors and you greeting a few schoolmates that I didn’t know. I never saw your brother, which was odd, as you two were usually almost inseparable.
Late in the night, you pulled me into the corner by the stairs. “I haven’t gotten to talk to just you all night.” Your eyes were glinting mischievously.
“What do you call this then?” I teased back.
We were interrupted by a cough above us, and we both looked up at the same time. Your brother grinned back, and dangling from his fingers was a sprig of mistletoe.
“This isn’t funny,” I remember you saying to him.
“And everybody has been expecting you two to hook up since freshman year,” your brother replied, raising an eyebrow. “Let’s just say I’m helping you two along somewhat.” He winked, then left the mistletoe on the banister and disappeared down the stairs, into the crowd.
You frowned, staring after him. “Sorry about that,” you eventually mumbled.
It took all my courage in that moment to take the opportunity your brother had given us, and I kissed you.
We were both blushing the rest of the night. As Mom and I were about to leave though, you tugged on my arm. As I turned, you quickly leaned down and kissed me. “Merry Christmas,” you murmured. Mom smiled at me, and I knew she approved of you.
The next morning we had to get up early to go to Father’s house for Christmas dinner. But at about eleven, when you typically get up, I got a text. Even though I was at the table, listening to boring conversations around me, I surreptitiously checked my phone. You sent me a picture of your brother sleeping, saying, “I’m gonna hit him. Nice wake-up call, eh?” Father was displeased at my muffled laughter, but Mom smiled, her eyes twinkling at me.
Our senior year, you laughed off college. Our relationship, our love, we were timeless, and you felt we had all the time in the world. I felt the last months slipping through my fingers. And despite your nonchalance at my panic over our futures, I could see the feelings you were hiding. The fear that something could happen in the coming years, and our relationship that seemed so fragile at times would shatter irreparably. But neither of us ever spoke of that.
I chose a posh school on the east coast, partially on Father’s insistence. You decided to go to a smaller college in Illinois. We still never spoke of our fears, and instead parted with a promise not to break communication over the years.
Freshman year for me was a haze of caffeine-fueled studying, late nights, too much solitude, and far more tears than I was comfortable admitting to. At the same time, it was sweet good morning texts, moments of phone calls snatched from our busy schedules, Skype calls that lasted well into the early hours of Saturday or Sunday mornings. How I melted into the sound of your voice, forgetting all about the stress, even if it was for only a few moments.
We saw each other again for Christmas. You were the one that gave me the final nudge I needed to transfer schools, to the tiny school nestled in the wilderness of Massachusetts that had stolen my heart in the first place. And despite Father’s disappointment, I was never reduced to tears again, and that made all the difference.
Father also disapproved of us moving in together after college, but to Mom, I was her baby girl who was in love and happy, and that was good enough for her.
Mom won that argument. Father never voiced his displeasure again, though I could still see it in the way he looked at you.
But we never really cared about any of that. No. After college we were young and had our whole lives ahead of us. And I remember how your eyes positively sparkled when we got married, and how your face lit up the first time you saw little Lilly. It was those little moments I lived for, where you would have the stars in your eyes and I could see the little family we had and nothing could tear it apart.
Except for accidents we never expected.
I’m sorry.