Dear Sister, Never Again #ONC2022

Does Not Apply

At twenty-five years old, I was finally able to take the first vacation I've had in my life. Canadian winters are rough, and my escape to the tropical island of Antigua was exactly what I needed. Fun in the sun, sand between my toes, ocean breeze blowing my hair; it was amazing. Until it wasn't.

Until the resort concierge tracked me down, saying I had an urgent phone call, and I just knew. Sure enough, I was headed to the airport two hours later with tears in my eyes and a fury building inside of me.

By the time I touched town in Toronto and picked up my silver Honda Accord from the long-term parking—which was far less long-term than I expected—I was numb. The situation may have differed from every other time, but the cause and result were the same.

Now I'm staring at the outside of my little yellow house, which is reflecting the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser, blinking back tears once again. How anyone could be so heartless is beyond me. My house is destroyed. Ruined. Beyond repair. All thanks to my sister; if you can call someone who shares DNA but nothing else, any kind of familial title. The Joker was less cruel to Batman. As far as I'm concerned, we're through.

Maybe.

I've excused a lot of her behaviour in the past, assuming that she was dealing with issues she hadn't figured out how to handle or wasn't prepared to talk about yet. Her antics have been brushed under the rug, ignored, and forgiven more times than I can count. But looking at my house—what used to be one—and realizing that we were both raised in the same circumstances, I'm not making excuses any longer.

Life wasn't easy for either of us. I recognize that. But that doesn't give her a free pass to go around destroying what other people have worked for.

"I'll escort you inside to see if we can retrieve any personal effects, then we'll block it off. Are you ready?" A police officer with a subtle British accent gestures toward the door.

"I guess."

From the outside, my little two-bedroom bungalow looked bad. I could see the frayed curtains, the overturned furniture, and the broken windows. That did nothing to prepare me for the condition of the inside. The rustic hardwood floor I saved for two years to buy and laid with my own two hands is covered in burn marks. Ruined.

The cream-coloured walls I spent two weekends preparing and painting are stained with who knows what. Blood? More burn marks?

My furniture is all destroyed—every item that I painstakingly searched for and saved to buy. I worked so hard to make this house a home, and because of a gesture of goodwill, it's been obliterated.

"It looks even worse than the pictures," I whisper to the officer, because I'm so distraught my voice won't go any louder.

"The insurance company sent their cleaners in, so it's a lot better now than it was. I'm so sorry, Miss Houston."

"Layla, please." I offer a smile, despite the fact I'm equal parts devastated and mortified.

We enter my bedroom, and it has fared no better. My mattress has been gutted and burned, my wardrobe emptied, and my drawers all ripped out and tossed. I hope they were looking for a stash of cardigans and period panties, because that's all they would have found. Except for...

"No. No. No." I wade through the mess of charred clothes on my floor, over to the large cabinet that used to house my blouses and pants... and the jewellery my great grandmother brought to Canada when she first emigrated from Ukraine in 1920. Jewellery she held onto through The Great Depression and Second World War. Items that were precious enough for her to nearly starve rather than sell. "It's gone. Everything."