Dear Mrs. Bluth,
Twenty-six years ago, an argument of epic proportions destroyed the close relationship between my sister and me. The hatred and bitterness that ensued has grown to include the next generation. Even our husbands, who had been good friends originally, ended up casualties of war and are now mortal enemies. All of this over a comment made by my sister to a mutual neighbor, who then repeated it to my daughter and she to me.
Looking back, what hurt so much was that my sister would think to discuss something personal that I shared with her in confidence with a neighbor, who then told others. The shame and embarrassment I suffered was unbelievable. I recall not going to shul for weeks because I knew everyone was talking about me. What was worse, when I confronted my sister, she denied that she had said anything and that even if she might have let something slip by accident, it was nothing to get so upset about. Accusations flew back and forth, we screamed vile things at each other and I hung up on her saying I never wanted to see or hear from her again. From that moment on, we were dead to each other. I don’t think I even shed a tear or gave her another thought. It was as if she never existed for me and everyone knew not to mention her name or speak of her in my presence, at the risk of suffering the same fate.
Family events, births, engagements, weddings were like minefields. It got to the point that either one of our families got invited and not the other, or neither family got an invitation, as we could never attend the same simcha or be in the same room. I even changed the shul we davened in so as not to be near them. The estrangement extended to our children and they, out of loyalty to us, cut ties with their cousins and severed any relationship with their aunt and uncle. At some point, my sister and her family moved to Israel and some things, like family gatherings, became somewhat easier. When my parents passed away, my husband accompanied the aron to Eretz Yisroel for burial, and I sat shiva here, freeing me from seeing my sister during the mourning period. And so the years passed, out of sight out of mind; life was simpler, less painful and less complicated.
Until three weeks ago. The phone rang in the middle of the night; it was my brother-in-law. My sister, he said, was in hospital. She was dying, having battled a deadly disease for many months and was asking for me. Please come, he said, she doesn’t have much longer.
After hanging up the phone, I sat for a long while at the edge of my bed, torn by a vast range of emotions. Why now when I had finally found a way to live without her and my life was good? Why did she have to intrude again and open up all the old wounds and painful memories? Deep in thought, I didn’t see my husband had gotten up and brought me a glass of water and tissues; it was only then that I realized I was crying. He told me to go, that it was time to make peace.
So, the next day I flew to Israel, got into a cab and rode directly to the hospital. A nurse showed me to my sister’s room and suddenly my legs felt rubbery and incapable of supporting me. My brother-in-law walked toward me; I barely recognized him, he had aged and looked years older than he was. Gently, in a whisper, he asked me to come to the bedside, that my sister weaves in and out of consciousness. I was incredulous at the sad, shrunken visage of what was left of my sister. Moments passed before she opened her eyes and her bony fingers searched the air for my hand, clasped it and, through the oxygen mask, made guttural sounds, trying to speak. Gently, my brother-in-law lifted off the mask and, with great difficulty, my sister asked me to forgive her for all the pain she had caused me. She did not want to leave this world without telling me how much she loved me, that she had wanted to tell me all these years but couldn’t find the words. She said she had so hoped that I, being the older one, would have tried to reach out to her, but she understood how hurt I was.