George

As the oldest of two, while living in the foster home, I was held responsible for my sister. My sister and I did not get along well together. I won’t say that we never had any fun together. There are moments I remember fondly where we are standing on picnic tables singing and dancing our hearts out, making up plays or playing out our own little dramas. We would entertain the veterans who came to make poppies when we got home from school.
However, we spent most of our time together arguing. This dynamic was set up by our foster mother. Recall that it was made clear to my father that they only wanted my sister, so I was treated as a second class citizen right from the start and my sister was the princess. She could do no wrong and if she did get into trouble it was all my fault for allowing it to happen or, alternatively, I was accused of having a hand in it.
If my sister said that I did something to her, like make a face or poke her in the ribs or some other sibling type thing, I would be sent to our bedroom without dinner. I can’t count the number of times this happened. Most of the time, I’d done nothing at all.
I was also called George and was treated like the big brother, rather than the big sister that I was. My middle name is Georgina, so you might think it a natural nickname and I’m reading too much into it. I wondered about that too, but then family members told me how poorly I was treated. My foster sister, who was married by the time we came on the scene, told me years ago that she and her husband would get into these awful arguments with our mother over how I was treated. Punishment for this infringement was estrangement for months at a time. That’s right, my mom wouldn’t talk to her own daughter for months at a time. I’m told this happened quite a few times over the nine years we lived with the foster parents.