Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • A message from my sister:

    "Kindly remove "_______" from your facebook name. You arent one of us, you just claimed that yourself."

    I didn't claim it for myself--in the way that your smile lights up a room just like your Grandma's did, you believe the comments about favoring someone's looks. You know because you share a house and hopes and dreams and sorrow and the ebb and flow of life with these people in your home. I never could have believed that wasn't my name until I found my birth certificate. I was 9 and suddenly there was no earth beneath my feet; no roots tethering me to the ground. Then, after our Mom told you and your full-blooded sister, you never hesitated to scream "you're not my real sister" in my face. I tried to be your real sister--I tried to bribe you for your love with money from my summer job. I saved you when you were two and fell in a pool in the middle of winter. I took the spankings that were yours--you were just a baby. I tried to ignore the incoherent rages hurled my way by Mom, the flying plates aimed at my head, the stairs I was tossed down, the "I wish you were never born"s rolling off our Mom's tongue like she was asking for a pound of hamburger from the butcher, the "you'll never be anyone"s, the hands around my throat, the hours spent in the bathroom trying to make my coarse, curly, almost-red-almost-brown-almost-but-not-quite hair as smooth and shiny and blonde as my sisters, the sorrow, the hurt, the agony of knowing I was never one of them, that my mother hated me with the fire of a thousand suns. I cried out to a God I knew didn't exist because I had no one else to cry to, I was a mistake: the product of a 19 year old's idea of romance, the "if you weren't born I could have gone to college", the shattered dreams of an angry drunk's daughter, the one you sent to the door when the collection men came, the one that made it to 19 with no children and a failed marriage. The surfer girl that got stuck.

    I tucked my sleepy boys into bed last night after I sang them "You Are My Sunshine", kissed them goodnight, and padded into my living room. I sat down next to the man who has stood by me for thirteen years--the father of my children--and remembered something: Indeed I am not one of you, sister.

    I am one of them.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.