Family Dynamics
My brother hates me
Some months ago, my twelve-year-old granddaughter asked me, “Which brother do you miss the most, the one who died or the one who doesn’t speak to you?”
After assuring her that grandmothers are here to take care of grandchildren and not vice-versa, well, at least not yet, I had time to ponder her question.
My family has a history of members not talking to each other that goes back long before I was born. Usually it started with money issues, business decisions taken incorrectly, salary inequalities, who knows, really? The remaining cousins are old now, and I don’t believe that any of us know the actual reasons our fathers decided to part company.
My father had two brothers; the fight began before I was born, and a small reconciliation happened when I was a young teenager. It felt good, for the short while it lasted, to have what others had—cousins, uncles and aunts. The original three brothers are long gone, but the adult children in each family have no communication. In essence, there are no brothers and sisters who maintain any kind of relationship. This includes me and my own brother.
My older brother (the one who didn’t die) was my hero. He was tall (very important for a small girl), brilliant (he just knew how to do everything), and independent (I still clutched my mother’s hand). He was kind and patient with me. I was wide-eyed in amazement at his talents.
There was a great deal of competition between the three families. We were the “smart” branch, with my brother leading the pack. The other two sides were the “sporty” ones, taking off at the spur of the moment for Gstaad or wherever the powder was good. As much as we tried to stay in our own lanes, individual talents elicited jealousy. How I longed to ski rather than being relegated to the one who reads.
But in my little nuclear family, we loved and supported each other, even if we didn’t always agree. By the time I was five years old, the five-legged creature that was my family of origin only had three limbs. But we three were tight. We had each other’s backs, and while we had exceedingly different personalities and talents, there was love. If blood only makes you related but loyalty makes you family, well, we were family.
The year was 2007. I was sitting in the waiting room of St. Mary’s Hospital while my daughter was giving birth to her first child, my first grandchild. My ex-husband was there with his wife as were my son-in-law’s parents. It was early on a Sunday morning, and we made nervous small talk, each of us secretly praying that everything would go well.
After some time, the new dad arrived with an enormous grin, telling us all that a healthy boy had been born some minutes before. There was some hugging and a bit of crying before the other four people in the room took out their phones and began to spread the good news. I remember how beautiful it was when my son-in-law’s dad called his mother-in-law to inform her that she had just become a great-grandmother. The others all phoned their sisters and brothers and parents, aunts and uncles. I realized something: I had no one to call.
While my mother was technically alive, she was gravely incapacitated and would not be able to understand the news. (I firmly believed that she waited until this baby was born to die so that her favourite granddaughter would be otherwise occupied and therefore unable to be too sad; it didn’t work.)
My two sons had already heard the news, and my remaining brother, my hero, well, he wasn’t taking my calls. I quickly phoned friends and pretended to be as involved in my cell as the others in the room.
Family estrangement, ruptures between loved ones—can we be genetically predisposed?
I have three adult children of my own and if anyone were to tell me that in the future they would not be on speaking terms, never mind close, it would just about do me in. Some years ago, as I prepared to undergo a rather serious surgery, my final words to them were that they better stick together, or I would return from my grave and haunt them.
I have always believed that nuclear family members are there to be protectors, defenders, and guardians of secrets, good and bad. They pick up our armour when it has fallen haphazardly to the ground and love us even when they don’t like us.
The above-mentioned granddaughter has two siblings, and I have seen them all fight. However, when anyone outside of their triumvirate attack, boy, do they stick up for each other! Should anyone make the mistake of messing with any of them at their shared school, I can tell you right now that the result would not be pretty.
As we sat shiva for my mother, my brother’s wife and I had words, and that was that. I no longer existed. When I saw my brother some years later at an aunt’s funeral, he pretended not to recognize me.
So my father and his brothers fought. History repeats as their children do not have a relationship. And then there is my brother and me. We will likely go to our graves not speaking, probably neither of us understanding our true motivations. Maladaptive attempts to connect? To disconnect, I just don’t know.
It is profoundly regrettable. I miss the one who doesn’t speak to me.
I wish the generations that follow this one will continue to be loving to one another.
Let the curse be broken.
 | A guest post by
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I have heard so many stories like this. Heck, I've seen one, up close, in my own family. My dad had one sister, younger, and my mom had four older siblings. We grew up near my mom's hometown and five hours from my dad's. We were much closer to her family geographically but also emotionally—I don't recall how old I was when it became apparent that my mother and my paternal aunt didn't get along, but things got exponentially worse after my dad disappeared when I was 13 and when his body turned up seven weeks later. My mom said it was an accident but my aunt and paternal grandmother knew it was suicide and they blamed her. Things got worse between the two branches of the family, but 12 years after my dad died there was a rapprochement, brokered in part by my cousin, my aunt's daughter. I watched in amazement over the next few years as my mother and aunt developed a relationship that was as close and loving as the ones Mom had with her biological sisters. The surprising compromise was that my mother, who refused to talk about the past with my sister and me, had wanted to with my aunt, and my aunt said, "Nope. If you want to do that, we can't have a relationship" (or something to that effect) and my mother said basically, "Fine, let's move forward," and they did. That's one of my touchstones when I think, "This is terrible, this is always going to be terrible, things will never get better." If those two could put all that animosity behind them and do what they did, I believe anything positive is possible.
This ran heavily throughout one side of my family. It still does. Generations, starting with my aunts down through great, great grandchildren. I have a particular cousin whose mother didn't speak to my grandmother, my aunt doesn't speak to her daughter, and it goes down from there. I'll never understand it. Like my brother once said to me: we inherited quantity but we sure lost quality in the mix.