From a distance, it can look like the other two apples are romantically involved.
The perverse romanticization of sibling relations is one that has begrudgingly fought its way to the forefront of society. Since the questionable origin of Adam and Eve to Jamie and Cersi Lannister, the power couple of today, there’s no doubt that shacking with your sister has some perks when it comes to commanding all of the seven kingdoms. This is why, growing up a prepubescent Catholic cherub, I believed brother and sister relations were okay.
Don’t fret, I didn’t partake in a savage mating ritual between blood brothers. I simply thought this was what every girl did at some point in her adolescent life. Braces, boobs, brothers; the essential three b’s were necessary to any blossoming beauty’s beginnings. I was introduced to this idea at the wee age of 8 after witnessing the fatal “prom photo” fiasco.
The fiasco involved my sister and brother and it is what made me believe the two were involved. Coming home to a ledge littered with professional photographs of my siblings coupled-up at high school dances, I assumed this was what every American couple, at the ripe age of reproducing, was up to. I knew that they were lucky enough to find “the one” after seeing homecoming and prom photos of my brother twirling my sister around the twinkling lights of a replica Eiffel tower. The question for me was where to heck – in a family that only had three siblings – was I going to find my “one?”
Now, it’s hard to pester your parents about procreating when you sleep in their bed for 16 years. The only potential opportunity they had to produce me a husband was during the one sleep over I failed to attend. I wasn’t too concerned, however. All I had to do was be patient and wait for the little brother who was inevitably going to come in to my life, take me to MY high school prom, and fall madly in love with me. Simple. But as my siblings continued sharing prom photos, and that picture-perfect love you only find in Love Actually, I continued waiting for my prince charming to exit my mom, sometimes sitting underneath the dinner table and tugging at the hem of her skirt for what felt like hours.
Time faded fast as I slowly, and painfully, realized love wasn’t destined to come my way. Due to the mutual decision of my parents to selfishly holdout on creating another life, I had been denied the one chance I had to swerve down the freeway at 80 mph blasting Jack’s Mannequin while my baby brother lovingly praised my unsafe driving skills in a 90-page poem we hoped would one day pay the bills after our Christian parents inevitably kicked us out for incest. My world was shattered.
To this day, I still do not know what grudge my mom and dad have against me. Why did they decide to stop reproducing after me? Was it because of the unlikely chance they were satisfied having a weird little girl, who slept in their bed 16 years too long and expected to one day date her baby brother, be the last person they passed on to the world? Or was it because my mother was physically incapable after contracting throat cancer?
Regardless of the reason, I became the third, and final, installment in the Gates saga. I moved on from my preconceived notions and searched outside the family in a desperate attempt to recreate that spark between my brother and sister for myself, only to fall flat on my face. But that’s okay. Despite my siblings constant insistence that they are “seriously not dating,” I know, somewhere out there, a man waits to love me like the sister he never dated. I eagerly wait to meet him.