Sometimes I think I’m adopted…

I just survived the weekend with my family. I can’t remember if I ever spent time with just my mother and my two sisters alone. There were always boyfriends/husbands and/or children there with us. Apart from the fact that there is this ‘thing’ between my older sister and myself, we got along marvellously well. Not that we discussed life issues, that is something that isn’t done. My mother and I do, together on Skype. But my sisters don’t. I don’t know why. Why is it not done to talk about your inner feelings, your happiness, with family? Isn’t that the stuff that you explicitly share with family only?

Now I’m back home again I’m joining the discussions on FARG again. The group for authors, by authors. And I feel more at home than I did last weekend. We discuss all sorts (writing related mostly), and some pour out their inner fears (me included) and we share each other’s happiness when book sales go well. I am more myself with these people whom I have never met than with my sisters.

My sisters don’t read, they haven’t read my books and they never, ever will. When we were visiting Edinburgh Castle they followed the stream of people, but they weren’t interested in the history of the place. I still don’t know much more about it than before my visit as we spent most of our time chatting over a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. I liked that, I had missed that, but I still don’t get why they didn’t want to know more about such a historic place, realising they would probably never go there again. Instead of visiting Camera Obscura afterwards they opted for shopping. Visiting shops they also have in Holland. It just blows my mind.

I love my sisters dearly, but sometimes I think I’m adopted…

Author: Jacky Dahlhaus

Paranormal Romance Author

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