The Ballad of Baby Vader


I’m not actually good at ballads. Let me just tell you what happened.

So, I knew my little sister was pregnant. She still is. Nothing has happened to her or the baby. I’m glad for her, even though I am estranged from my family. She deserves to be happy. I really mean that. Still, I was waiting to see what she named the new baby boy…

It’s not my fault that I derive amusement from the fact that she named her first son Moon. Moon Sosuke…. Yes, I find that hilarious since my family is Latino, not Japanese. It’s still very sad that we lost Moon to SIDS, but I will never get over that name…

So it was with bated breath and heavy anticipation that I was waiting to see what she named the new baby.

Well… unbeknownst to me, BOTH my sisters were pregnant. So… some weirdness was coming. 

On December 13th, my sister gave birth to a healthy baby boy that she proceeded to name Anakin.


Still can’t wait to see what my step sister names her new baby boy. Lol. (Avi. She named her baby boy Avi.)

It’s not all happiness, though. I wish I could smile at them while congratulating them. I wish I could make fun of their baby names and groan about outfits they’ll cram these kids into. I wish they were better family.

Don’t get me wrong, they’re great family for each other. They’re not bad people… they just aren’t great family to me. It’s better for my own mental health to stay away from them, especially dad. The few and far between pangs of sadness I feel when I spy on them is so much less than the deep and scarring ache I used to feel in my chest when dad would cancel plans over and over and over again, or when holidays would come and it was apparent that no one knew what I liked or understood why I didn’t want to drive across town at midnight for Christmas Eve after working 12 hours with the possibility of having to work Christmas day, or the silence.

The silence killed me most. I tried to be a good sister. I tried to be a good daughter. I don’t think I was bad at either of those, but their idea of a family and the idea I grew up with were so vast that it just felt that way. Dad didn’t know what I needed in a parent. It took my little sister years to figure out that I was even related to her, and my step sister, being the middle of seven step sisters and brothers, didn’t really pay me any mind. As a result, I didn’t hear from them much, even when I tried to talk to them first. My sisters didn’t seem to like me having their numbers, or the idea of me buying them lunch just to chat or see each other… so I stopped trying. Dad got to the point he only called or texted on birthdays, but after he asked if I was old enough to drink when I was 23, I never really cared for those messages… He’d lost track of me.

Sometimes it’s better to do something really hard once than to have to do something moderately hard over and over and over again.


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