Times were Different Then

Dianne Braley

"Times were different then."

It's a statement you sometimes hear older people saying, usually in an attempt to excuse bad behavior or a past failure that doesn't fit current societal norms. For our family, I wasn't sure if the times were different or that we were. As years have passed, I haven't noticed much has changed in our don't ask, don't tell family of a particular heritage, except my adult self voicing my intolerance to it, and that I now have a reactive aversion to secrets.

My father was married before. I didn't know growing up, at least not officially, but there were murmurs. I often wondered who she was, the name tattooed on his arm, feeling unnerved it was not my mother's. I would never ask. No one said much about anything that could be considered scandalous in our lives, so I followed suit. But it was hard not to ask anymore when she came—my sister.

 I never had a sister in the ten years of my life, so it was hard not to react, although I tried my best. My father announced her arrival one day as if I'd known her forever.

"Your sister is coming for a visit," he casually blurted, then went into his room.

I thought I'd lost my mind, briefly wondering if I suffered from amnesia or hit my head. I was sure I'd remember a sister as I'd always thought I'd like one. She walked in, and I didn't recognize her, so I didn't think I'd met her but was still unsure.

It soon became official; he was married before to the woman whose faded name was forever on his arm. The ex-wife and my sister lived in another state, and he didn't see her much after they divorced. I didn't ask for more details back then, staying true to my upbringing. She was six years older, beautiful, and polished-looking. The opposite of what I was, and I was sure he might like her better. She'd come around every so often, but I didn't get a chance to know her, although I thought I'd like to. It seemed my father's two worlds colliding was more than he could handle and that, along with our age difference, separated us. Years went on, and I didn't see her for a while except when our father died. We rode in the limo together, silent and awkward. I thought of her often and wondered what she was like. We were adults now and could make our own rules, not separated by our fathers' guilt and our family's dysfunction that kept us apart. I called her.

Speaking in spurts, we began getting to know each other. She was hesitant, and I was needy. I wanted her for reasons of which I was unsure. I wanted to know more about him, our father, and understand her. Maybe I wanted to learn more about myself. At times, we visited each other as the years went on and struggled some, with occasional opposing views of our father and experiences with him, as they'd both been different. We were often at different life stages and sometimes thousands of miles apart, but we kept coming together, forming a connection.

We came back to each other, over and over again. We didn't have to, but suddenly there was something more. In time, there was a relationship that surpassed our father and the bond of only our blood. We found we deeply cared for one another somewhere in the journey. She lives close now. We've been through marriages, divorce, and there are children. We sip wine on Wednesday evenings together and talk like we've known each other forever, and, in many ways, we have. I couldn't imagine my life without her now. She's not only my sister but my best friend. We sometimes laugh at the craziness of it all, the sisterhood we have, the sisterhood we created, wondering what our father would think. 

A raw, gritty New Englander, Dianne C. Braley is a registered nurse and freelance writer contributing to various online and printed publications. Both human, furry, and feathered, Dianne and her family are firmly planted in a small Massachusetts town north of Boston but not far enough away to lose her city edge.