I gazed around the circle of my siblings, afraid to meet each of their eyes, but I met them nonetheless. If I didn’t, they would be wary. If I remembered that day, they would see my anger. The day that they called me a failure.
The family group chat conversation had started with my only brother sending a picture to us all that said, “being the failure of the family sure is tough but someone’s gotta do it. Shoutout to my brother for stepping up to the plate.”
When I read the texts after work, I noticed one thing; no one in the family had really tried to argue with that- there were even some “joking” texts of agreement.
Words flowed through my mind, many of which I was uncomfortable using around my parents. The emotional distraught that I felt seared through my heart, and I couldn’t process what I should do or how I should react. I tried to take it as a joke, but it would only get worse.
“I guess I just found my new motto,” I text back. “Just wait until I marry a rich girl.”
The response came as a surprise: “I don’t know, I feel like we’re messing with fate here. Everyone in the family has married someone legit but you. You might be the one to marry someone we all despise.”
I couldn’t catch a break. The conversation went from “Eli’s a failure” to “we won’t like who Eli marries”.
That day couldn’t have ended soon enough. Many nights over the next three months would include sleepless tossing and turning, wishing I could have said this or I should have said that. I would even write the ideas out, planning which ones to say at our next family gathering; our family Christmas dinner.
The dinner was two days after Christmas as travel plans and individual celebrations took priority. It was held at my oldest sister’s house in Idaho Falls, where my nieces and nephews could have room to play and the adults would have room to talk.
Dinner was planned for 5, exactly when I got off work, so I wouldn’t have many opportunities to share those carefully constructed words.
Twenty minutes after I got there, the blare of the timer echoed throughout the main floor of the house, signifying it was time to eat. As each of my siblings called for their kids or their spouse, we gathered around the kitchen island to bless the food. My opportunity to speak up will have to wait until after dinner, I think to myself.
Dinner included some good-natured joking among us all. Afterwards, we had our sibling gift exchange; each gift had to be under $15 to make sure no one became jealous of another’s gift.
As we sat in a circle, I opened my gift. I was surprised and annoyed to see a barbie doll and a gingerbread house building kit, signifying my girlfriend and my own house. At least I know they like my “girlfriend”, I thought.
An hour later I sat at the table with my brother and brothers-in-law when my grandma called my mom, wanting to hear how everything was going. A couple seconds later, my mom comes over to me with a smile and the words, “Grandma wants to know about your girlfriend.”
I sigh as I put the phone up to my ear, and, reflecting on the price limit for the gift exchange, I say, “Well, grandma, all I can say is she must have been pretty cheap.”
As my whole family roared with laughter, I remembered that these people were my family. I couldn’t be upset with them forever.
I didn’t say any of the words I had planned that day; I’ve forgotten many of them. I remember only a few words: words that I would practice vocally in solitary car rides, words that kept me up at night, words that I hope to speak while looking them in the eye. Those words: “I forgive you.”
