She came home from the hospital and shook my expectations from their pedestal of joy
to the disillusionment of sisterhood.
Her eyes sparkled in the sunshine, as they say, but I shielded my own, longing to escape back into a cave of only childhood, a plethora of unshared love surrounding me.
It was joyous there. I could act on every wonder and wander and passion without considering her abilities, her schedule, her preferences, her compromises, her her her.
I liked her better when she was in the maternal cocoon, kicking but silent, not yet a beautiful butterfly.
They promised a playmate, a friend, a supporter to love me unconditionally. They promised they would still love me, pay attention to me, be proud of me, not let the watermelon-sized cherub invade and destroy my ethereal reality.
Promises were made to be broken, I learned.
Such is the disillusionment of sisterhood.
Welcome to Microvember, my take on NaBloPoMo. Each day this month I’ll be posting microfiction, short vignettes, or poetry, accompanied by photography. See more Microvember posts here.