Family estrangement leaves a pervasive residue, its complexities touching every corner of our lives, as Kathryn Heyman insightfully notes. Healing the wounds it inflicts often proves an incredibly arduous task. Decades ago, while residing in Scotland, I observed a profound rift between my neighbor and her mother. Despite living just a few streets apart, they hadn’t communicated in three years, and my friend remained ignorant of the cause, lacking any desire to inquire. I recall once pondering aloud what she would do upon her mother’s death, imagining the anguish of discovering such a loss weeks or months too late. The thought of such a delayed realization struck me as a profound tragedy. Little did I know then that I would eventually navigate a remarkably similar familial divide myself.
In 2020, each time my sister V’s name appeared on my phone screen, a wave of apprehension washed over me. For 15 years, V had battled cancer, enduring cycles of remission and recurrence, each return bringing a new metastasis. This particular instance, her message was brief yet weighty: she simply needed “The Sisterhood” to convene – a name I had affectionately given our sisters’ group chat. Though our family comprised four sisters, only three would attend this critical gathering; there was no consideration of inviting our fourth sister, who, in any case, resided in a different nation.