The impossibility of hating her made me hate her all the more.
My sister was two years older than me, but seemed light years ahead of me. Not just because she got to do everything first — she “blossomed,” as mom phrased it, more than two years before I did, and it looked better on her than it ever would on me — but because she just was better at life.
She had the best boyfriends, and even when she broke up with them, they were still her friends, somehow. As a teenager, that’s impossible, but she pulled it off. Teachers loved her, but not because she kissed their ass, but because they recognized how great she was, just as everyone else did.
She had a grace that eluded me, not simply in the way she moved — although there was that — but how she related to people, and how people were drawn to her. Everything seemed to come easily for her, while I lumbered through life, leaving a path of debris in my wake.
She was special, in that way great people are, and I was not.
I loved her. Everyone loved her. But there was always this bitter little core in my heart that hated her for everything she was that I wasn’t.
So, when I opened the door and saw her, soaking wet and shivering on my doorstep, looking like her world had imploded, I had decidedly mixed feelings.