I Never Thought My Own Family Would Shun Me

But, misogyny won.

“J, it’s my house”, he said. 

“But why?”, I said, trying not to instantly start crying. 

I had just called my big brother. I felt like I was 12 again even though we were in our 30s and 40s.

He slipped into his role as a frustrated, wise big brother who was trying to just put up with his annoying little sister - me.

I decided to call him directly after seeing a photo on Instagram of his family around the Thanksgiving dinner table.

I saw the picture on Thanksgiving afternoon and had spent the night crying uncontrollably in bed. I was having panic attacks just trying to breathe while my kids came in every hour trying to coax me with pie and card games to stop crying like a crazy person.

It had been a hard year.

I had just gone through a divorce and moved across the country to be closer to family hoping to get their support. If I’m being honest, it’s because I didn’t think I could get through it without their cheerleading.

I called him determined to face this storm head-on. I thought for sure if he knew how much he had hurt me, he would apologize or at least stop doing this painful thing in the future. 

Besides, I told myself, I was close to him and his adorable family, wasn’t I? I lived to be an aunt.

I loved the cousin camps I hosted for my nieces and nephews every summer and I knew my siblings and their spouses appreciated the week alone. Despite living in separate states our entire adult lives we had worked hard to see each other 3-4 times a year. I had just spent the summer hiking the Canadian Rockies with them this year.

“I don’t understand why.” I repeated.

“I invited you for Thanksgiving at my house and I understand you had your own plans at your place, fine but I don’t see why you did it?” I said, my voice cracking like a kid again. 

“You, can’t determine what I do in my own home.” came the semi laughed reply.

I knew he really hated conflict almost as much as my Dad and I knew despite his laugh he hated this call.

I could picture his face and the way his smile went up on one side when he was uncomfortable and I knew how he was trying to diffuse things, make it lighter so we could move on.

To be fair, in our family, it usually worked. We would usually forget about what feelings were hurt by the next time we were gathered around the table playing cards and joking again.

It was a superpower he had. But, this time I couldn’t do it.

I was shaking with the start of what I knew to be another panic attack and I couldn’t laugh it off or shrug it off this time. I couldn’t.

I was heartbroken. 

I took a slow deep breath to try to hold off the storm that I knew was coming and I silently prayed to Heavenly Mother that I was wrong. Prayed that I was wrong about him. Prayed that I was being too sensitive and prayed that we could resolve this. 

“I’m not trying to tell you what to do in your own home!” I said sarcastically (not a good start, I thought).

I took another deep breath, “I’m just telling you that it hurt me to see him there… on Thanksgiving… with all your kids… esp. after you didn’t come to my house…”

I kept waiting hoping he’d see it. I held my breath. 

“You did this to yourself”, He said

My jaw dropped. “What?”, I said momentarily stunned. 

“Look, from what I understand,” he said, “You did this. You wanted this. You asked for the divorce. You divorced him. We didn’t.” 

“Yes, but…”, I tried interjecting.

“You wanted to be away from him and to me, he will always be the head of your eternal family. He went on. “He will always be welcome in my home.” 

And there it was. The big scary thing I hoped he would never say.

I knew my ward members judged me and saw things as black and white but I honestly, didn’t ever think that my big brother would think that way. This was the big brother who I adored. The one who had baptized my daughter only a few years earlier. I couldn’t believe he saw such big issues so myopically.

I had heard the stories and even had friends that had told me how their family had shunned them but I never thought it would happen in my family. We were different than that. We were progressive Mormons. We were Ute fans for goodness sakes!

But there it was. The misogyny on the other end of the line.

He was drawing a patriarchal line in the eternal sand. He didn’t even ask because he thought he knew my eternal family better than me. He didn’t value me.

He didn’t see my strength in leaving an abusive marriage or how hard I worked to keep my family together and not get divorced.

He didn’t see the hours of marriage counseling that ended with our therapist telling me it was okay to let go when it wasn’t safe or fulfilling.

He didn’t see how brave I was to start over.

He didn’t see how smart I had been to save and have zero debt to get through this hell. He didn’t even recognize my kids’ safety now that we weren’t walking around scared in our own home.

I had chosen to get a divorce after I had been sealed to a man,  for eternity.

That’s all that my brother saw in me. A woman who broke the rules. He didn’t see the years of tear-filled calls I made to him about my situation or the prayer requests I had.

He didn’t see the joy and love I had given him and his kids. He didn’t see the homemade and sentimental gifts I gave him every year. He didn’t see me as anything but someone’s wife. And I had failed at that. 

My Mormon heart broke.

I don’t remember the rest of the call. I don’t remember if I was feisty or resigned. I probably swore and cried and acted like a bratty little sister.

I do remember that immediately after that phone call, I went through the hell of getting a temple divorce in hopes that it would repair my relationship with my big brother. I was hoping for some sort of male validation he could accept so he could have something tangible to permit him to have a relationship with me.

But, it was broken.

There have been no more calls back and forth. No visits when he’s in town or when I’m in town. There are no more hikes together or late-night card games.

Not much more than hellos at family funerals. My kids lost cousins and I lost a brother. 

I still grieve.

It’s been 6 years. But I know damn well that abusive men, and the men who protect them, will never be the head of anyone’s eternal family.

And for that I give thanks. 

Written by Joanna Smith.