Journal Entries, Spilled Ink & Prose

Happy Birthday

It’s silly. Your birthday is this week, and one particular memory keeps surfacing. It’s not even a particularly bad memory; we were children then, and since I now have children of my own, I understand better. Yet still, it fills me with sadness and regret.

You probably don’t even remember, you were so small. I think you were two, which means I was seven. It was the middle of the night. I was startled awake by a noise, and, there you were, sitting in my room, playing with my toy bowling set.  You saw I was awake and asked: “Come play with me ‘Yssica?”

I didn’t sit and play with you. I got up, woke up our mother, and she put you back to bed.

You were two and I was seven and anyone would say that my reaction was a normal one. All big sisters are annoyed by their little brother. But still.

I should have played with you.

Maybe, just maybe, if I had, things between us would be different, and we wouldn’t be strangers today.

Happy Birthday.

Happy Birthday | Milk Stains & Notebooks | Motherhood. Marriage. Furious Scribbling.

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