A letter to … my long-lost aunt

I still call you my aunt. It feels strange to think of you as anything else. Once upon a time, you were my friend. I felt closer to you than I'd ever felt to another adult. You understood me and treated me like an equal. Like someone with ideas and opinions that were valid and interesting. It didn't matter that you'd just married Mum's brother and we weren't really related: you were a part of my family and I'd chosen you.

It's not that I don't love my mum. I love her a lot and I would never replace her. It's just that you were the cool one with the stories – the one who took me shopping and taught me to knit. You gave me a small glass of wine and told me to be whatever I wanted. I often wonder if things might have been slightly different now. If I still knew you. I'm not unhappy; on the contrary, I'm just fascinated with fate and chance and coincidence and how one event might be the catalyst for a thousand others.

For a long time, I felt like the closest thing you had to a child of your own and then when you had a little boy, I still felt like an integral part of your life – a confidante and a help (as much help as a 12-year-old can be). As your son grew, however, your marriage crumbled. It was no surprise when you and my uncle announced that you'd decided to divorce. At first, it didn't bother me. I wanted everyone to be happier and maybe you'd all feel better this way. I was even hopeful that this would mean the end of those awkward, bitter silences over cold cups of tea. Perhaps you'd laugh more again.

Suddenly, however, people stopped mentioning your name, and I was awkwardly silenced if I tried to. You'd become a dirty word. My uncle looked older and wearier but I was never told what you did. Maybe I wasn't deemed old enough. I often thought about you, wondered whether I should phone or write. I never asked if this was allowed – truthfully, I was scared to contact you. I imagined that you must have morphed into an awful monster. Why else would everyone suddenly dislike you so? How could you have changed so much? Years passed. And passed and passed. You became less important.

When I look back now, I wonder why you decided to not only divorce my uncle but also his family too. Why me? You stopped loving him, but why did you stop loving me? I think we could have continued to be friends. I've started to think about the intricacies of divorce. I've wondered about family too. My uncle is my blood relative. Does that mean I am automatically loyal to him? I'm not sure. It was decided for me.

Recently I saw you again for the first time in many years, but you didn't seem particularly interested in me. In fact, I didn't really feel acknowledged at all. I wanted to tell you about myself – about who I was now. Mistakenly, I thought you'd be as curious and excited as I grudgingly was. You patted me on the back and drove away into your metaphorical sunset without as much as a backward glance. You just didn't care – not in a cruel way. I don't think it even occurred to you that you should. I suppose I don't blame you so much now, because back then you were an adult and I was a child. You'd had a big impact on my short life, and I'd had very little impact on your longer one. I was a leaf quickly fluttering by and you were a root in my tree – someone who was in many of my childhood memories.Someone who has had some influence on the adult I am still trying to become.

I was probably too young to really understand and so my viewpoint is very self-centred. All I can really remember are my own feelings of hurt and rejection. I know little of your motives or heartache. Maybe you needed a clean break? I would have understood but I just wish you'd told me. Regardless, you've never tried to contact me and I won't contact you again.

Anonymous

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