The Family That Never Was

“But Jessica is a doctor!” My mother’s voice crackled through the phone, slicing through the rare silence of my tiny Chicago apartment. I pressed my forehead to the cool windowpane, watching the city wake up beneath a pale November sky.

“And what does that have to do with me, Mom?” I tried to keep my voice steady, but the familiar sting of inadequacy crept in, uninvited.

“It’s not about you, Amy. It’s about what you could be. Don’t you want to do something important with your life?”

I gripped the phone tighter, knuckles white. The apartment felt even smaller, the walls inching closer with every word. I was twenty-nine, working as a graphic designer for a mid-level ad agency, living paycheck to paycheck, and according to my family, I was wasting my potential. Meanwhile, Jessica—my older sister—was saving lives at Northwestern Memorial, her white coat a shining beacon of everything I wasn’t.

I could hear my mother exhale sharply on the other end. “You used to be so creative, Amy. You used to dream big.”

“I still do, Mom. Just not in the way you want.”

A brittle silence hung between us. Then, as always, she pivoted. “Are you coming for Thanksgiving or not?”

I hesitated. Every family gathering was a minefield. My parents would parade Jessica’s achievements, her perfect marriage, the two grandkids. They’d ask about my dating life, my job, always with that pointed edge—when are you going to settle down? When are you going to grow up?

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” I lied. I hung up and let my phone slide from my hand to the carpet.

Later that afternoon, I stared at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. My boss, a man who wore Patagonia vests and called everyone “champ,” had just handed me another energy drink campaign. My ideas were ignored, my creativity stifled. I found myself doodling little monsters in the margins of my notes—beasts with sharp teeth and sad eyes. They looked a lot like how I felt.

That night, I called my friend Marcus. “Why do I let her get to me?”

He laughed softly. “Because she’s your mom. You want her approval.”

“I’m almost thirty,” I said, voice cracking. “Shouldn’t I be over this?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Maybe you never get over it. Maybe you just learn to live with it.”

I hung up feeling hollow. I microwaved some Trader Joe’s mac and cheese, watched reruns of ‘Parks and Rec,’ and tried not to think about Jessica, about Thanksgiving, about the family I never really felt a part of.

The days ticked by. At work, I overheard Sara from HR talking about her mother’s new cancer diagnosis. She cried in the bathroom at lunch. I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that at least she had a mother who cared, but the words stuck. I thought of my own mother’s voice—just sharp enough to draw blood, just soft enough to make me doubt myself.

A week before Thanksgiving, Jessica called. “I heard you’re coming home,” she said, her voice warm but clipped. “Mom’s excited.”

“Yeah,” I said, “should be fun.”

She hesitated. “Amy, you know she just wants the best for you, right?”

“Does she?” I laughed, bitter. “Or does she just want me to be like you?”

Jessica sighed. “I didn’t ask for this, you know. I just… did what they told me. Sometimes I wish I’d done something else.”

That admission stunned me. For the first time, I heard the tremor in her voice, the weight she carried. Maybe we were both trapped, just in different cages.

At Thanksgiving, the house smelled of turkey and cinnamon, but the air was taut. My mother’s eyes flicked over me, taking in my thrift-store sweater and chipped nail polish. Dad cracked awkward jokes about millennials. My nephews climbed on the furniture, wild and happy. Jessica smiled at me across the table—a silent truce.

At dinner, Mom raised her glass. “To family. And to Jessica, for getting published in the New England Journal!”

Everyone clapped. I felt my cheeks burn. Dad tried to include me, “And Amy just got a new client at work, right?”

I nodded, forcing a smile. “Yeah. It’s a start.”

Mom didn’t even look at me.

After dinner, I stood in the backyard, wrapped in my old varsity jacket, staring at the bare trees. Jessica joined me, shivering. “Why do we do this to ourselves?” she asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because we’re still hoping something will change.”

She put her arm around me. For a moment, I let myself lean into her. Maybe we weren’t so different, after all.

That night, I packed my bag and left before sunrise. I drove back to Chicago with the radio off, letting the silence settle. At a red light, I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror—tired, yes, but for the first time, I felt something like resolve.

I quit my job a week later. I took a risk and started freelancing, designing children’s books and album covers. Some months, the money was tight, but I was happier. I called my mother less, and talked to Jessica more. We shared our fears, our disappointments. Slowly, I built a life that was mine.

Sometimes, I still hear my mother’s voice in my head, asking why I can’t be more like Jessica. But now, I answer back—because I’m Amy. And that has to be enough.

Do you ever wonder if the family you dream of will ever be the family you have? Or do we just have to make peace with the family we get?