Losing a parent is difficult enough without sibling dissension that goes on and on and on … Unsuspecting Charlotte Gunne found out the hard way
Irving Berlin was on to something when he penned the lyrics for his famous 1954 song, Sisters. Rosemary Clooney immortalised the song in the film White Christmas, and the lyrics “there were never such devoted sisters” spoke to little girls all over the world who loved their sister but knew, even as a child, that the relationship could be “complicated” to say the least. At least that’s how it was for me. My sister and I were allies at the start, but as so often happens, life and human frailty intervened and we went from devoted sisters to adversaries who today, never speak. Mr Berlin appears to have skipped over that part, or perhaps it was just easier to turn a blind eye to the complicated relationships that so often exist between siblings.
Of course, we were close as young children, which is no surprise given that there were just two of us, born barely 18 months apart. We played together, slept together and laughed together but there was no denying that we were very, very different. In school, we always had our own groups of friends and our teenage years were fraught with bickering as we navigated our own paths. My sister was older by just 18 months, but to her, the only important aspect of that fact was the fact that she was “older”. She enjoyed flaunting her seniority over me and was often the one to reprimand me when I had behaved badly, even if it was only in her eyes. The fact that I duly ignored her simply enraged her and my teenage selfishness was something that irked her no end, especially when she was quite the dutiful daughter, something I had never aspired to. Assuredly, there were issues between us, but we were mostly close and loved each other, faults and all. When we were teens and she chased me up the stairs with a hockey stick for staying out too late, I loved her.
When she called a friend’s house and demanded I get home straight away, I was irate and embarrassed, but I loved her. When my mother patiently explained to me that my sister had difficulty with my blasé and devil-may-care attitude to life, I was baffled, but I continued to love her. And then we grew up, and all of a sudden our childish friction morphed into something much more and our relationship took a turn that we have been unable to come back from. We could, and should, have been best friends as adults, but sadly for us it was not to be.
All of a sudden our childish friction morphed into something much more and our relationship took a turn that even we have been unable to come back from. We could, and should, have been best friends as adults, but sadly, for us it was not to be …
And so, we muddled through the late teenage years and set out on our separate paths. I married and had children at a young age and by the age of 30 I was living a comfortable life with a beautiful home and financial stability. My sister, on the other hand, had travelled for some years before returning home where her life seemed to reach an impasse. She was living with our mother, our father having passed some years before and was struggling with assimilating into Irish life after years of travelling the world. When our mother converted her attic to a selfcontained apartment to allow her and her partner some independence, I thought it was a great idea. Things began to improve when she found a job she was (mildly) happy in, married and had children, all the while, living with Mum until eventually, Mum went into a nursing home. A few years later, Mum passed away, and then everything changed.
Anyone that has watched a parent or loved one suffer from Alzheimer’s disease knows what a long and painful journey it is. Going through the pain of Mum’s illness and her eventual death made myself and my sister closer than ever, and after Mum died, I felt renewed in our relationship and sure that we would always be there for each other. After all, we were all each other had left.
But what is it they say about things happening in threes? For me, it was the perfect storm. My marriage ended a few short months after Mum passed and the economic collapse enveloped us and changed absolutely everything. I suddenly went from being in a relationship with financial security to being a single mother, about to lose my home. In a haze of grief and confusion we both, as executors, attempted to settle our Mum’s estate. She had been prepared, and had made a will which made the situation straightforward at the beginning. She had left us both equal shares of her estate and to be honest, that really only consisted of her house and its contents so there wasn’t anything to argue about, or so I naively assumed. My sister and her family had been living in the property since Mum had been admitted to a nursing home some years earlier but as far as I was aware, they were resigned to selling the property so the estate could be settled. I no longer had the financial cushion that I had enjoyed in previous years so my inheritance had never been more important. I was in danger of losing my home and with four young children, I needed to make plans. It soon became apparent that my sister had a plan of her own, and it didn’t include splitting the estate fairly, regardless of Mum’s wishes. It became clear that for some reason, she blamed me for the break-up of my marriage and the impact it had on her family. She truly believed that had I remained financially secure, I would have conceded to her keeping the house and we would all live happily ever after. It wasn’t long before things turned frosty between us and it became quite clear that she had no intention of leaving or selling the house. In her mind, she had earned it and it and my misfortune shouldn’t have any impact on her.
Of course, she hadn’t a leg to stand on but that didn’t make it any easier. Her refusal to concede and allow the house to be sold made it close to impossible to find resolution. She made all sorts of promises about buying the house but 13 years later, I was still waiting. I had lost my own home some years previously and was struggling to pay rent and provide for my children as a single parent while she did everything to prolong the situation. She was certainly determined and her tactics to delay the sale until she was in a position to buy became legendary in our small circle. Fourteen years after my mother passed away, both of us worn out from years of bitterness, we finally reached an agreement. My eldest son had been 14 when his grandmother passed away; by the time we received the inheritance that allowed us to buy a home, he was a 27-year-old man, long gone from home. Of course, there are always two sides to every story, but in the end, stubbornness and greed led to a long protracted feud, which irreparably damaged our relationship and that of those around us. Cousins that had once been close rarely each see other, and there is so much unresolved angst between us, that it’s difficult to envisage a way back; only time will tell. When family disputes abound, there are rarely any winners and sadly, we have now become the cautionary tale within our now defunct circle, which is not a title I imagine either of us is happy to bear.