Chapter 15
The tranquility of my new,
established life was suddenly interrupted,
by the arrival of a thick,
cream-colored envelope in my mailbox.
I recognized the looping,
pretentious handwriting immediately,
and a cold,
familiar knot of anxiety formed tightly in my stomach.
It was a letter from my older sister,
Megan,
sent directly from her lavish,
suburban Boston address.
I sat at my sturdy,
wooden kitchen table,
staring at the sealed envelope for a long,
agonizing hour,
before I finally gathered the courage to tear it open.
The letter was long,
rambling,
and heavily stained with smeared,
watery mascara.
Megan revealed that her seemingly perfect,
flawless marriage was completely falling apart,
and that her husband was leaving her for a younger,
wealthier woman.
She wrote that our parents were furious with her,
treating her impending divorce as a shameful,
unforgivable social embarrassment,
and offering her absolutely no emotional support.
She was terrified,
alone,
and drowning in a massive mountain of hidden,
credit card debt.
At the very bottom of the page,
written in a small,
desperate script,
she asked if she could borrow a significant,
substantial amount of money.
My initial,
ingrained reflex was to immediately write her a check,
to swoop in,
and play the role of the reliable,
invisible savior that I had always been.
But as I read the desperate,
pleading words again,
I realized that saving her from the consequences of her choices,
would only perpetuate the toxic,
enabling cycle of our family.
I showed the letter to Ruth,
who read it with a heavy,
sorrowful sigh,
and she gently placed her weathered hand over mine.
You cannot buy her freedom,
she said softly,
because true freedom must be earned,
and fought for,
by the individual.
I knew she was absolutely,
undeniably right.
I pulled out a piece of clean,
white stationery,
and I wrote a short,
compassionate reply.
I told Megan that I loved her,
and that I was deeply,
truly sorry for her pain,
but I firmly stated that I would not send her any money.
I offered to help her find a good,
reputable therapist,
and I told her that she possessed the strength to rebuild her own life,
if she was willing to do the hard,
uncomfortable work.
I sealed the envelope,
placing a stamp in the corner,
and dropped it into the outgoing mail slot.
I felt a brief,
fleeting moment of guilt,
but it was quickly replaced by a profound,
liberating sense of boundary-setting.
I was no longer responsible for their happiness,
May you like
and that realization was the ultimate,
final key to my own peace.
