I Thought My Sister And I Would Be There For Each Other Through Anything. Then, She Testified Against Me In My Own Custody Trial.

As a kid, I always felt safer when my baby sister and I shared a room, holding hands through the bars of her crib as our mom drank herself to sleep in the next room. So 30 years later, watching her testify against me in my divorce/custody trial was especially painful.

It's not that I expected V to protect me, but her presence always made me feel less alone. I was almost 7 years old when she was born and proud to be a big sister that looked out for my younger sibling. But there were so many things I couldn’t protect her from — our mom’s raging alcoholism, her dad’s untimely death from cancer, or the car that nearly killed her when she was just 3 years old.

I found her outside that evening, lying limp at the bottom of our driveway, eyes wide open and unblinking, staring at the sky as though watching an invisible bird overhead, with a dusty, gray tire print across her tiny, pale belly — an image my 10-year-old brain couldn’t comprehend. Even as I saw my mom's Chrysler cockeyed in the middle of the street where it wasn't supposed to be, and the driver's door hanging open, neighbor kids crying that they were “just playing, it was an accident.”

I prayed hard that night while V was in surgery, bargaining with a god I wasn’t sure I believed in but nonetheless promising to be a better sister, daughter, and human if she survived. Still, with different dads, a chaotic family life, and a cavernous gap between our interests and developmental stages, it was hard to form a friendship, and we were never that close.

It didn’t help that our mom often undermined our relationship, pitting us against each other with a parenting style heavy on scapegoating, favoritism, and name-calling. And like most families of alcoholics, we each had a role to play. As the oldest, most outspoken, and daughter of a man our mother openly hated, I was the eternal outsider, while V, as the youngest, most vulnerable, and daughter of a dead man our mother sainted, was her beloved baby. Naturally, I couldn’t get out soon enough, and — at 15 — moved in with my dad an hour away, leaving V alone with our mom, who was in between husbands.

Still, I always considered the bond between sisters to be a sacred one and tried to stay in touch as we grew older, our mom married her fourth husband, and they all moved 700 miles away. I flew in from California when she graduated high school in Washington and bought her plane tickets to visit me in San Francisco.

But our relationship created constant angst for our mom, who worried about how we spent our time together, whether or not 18-year-old V could travel independently, or even make her way through the airport alone. It was exhausting, and one of many conflicts between my mom and me that impacted my relationship with V.

As I got older, I began to spend less time with my family, cycling in and out of periods of estrangement while trying to individuate and establish my own identity. But the toxicity intensified when I married a man from a different race and country, and it seemed like almost everyone in my family rebelled. V was the only one from my side of the family who came to our wedding, and I was so moved by her support in the face of overwhelming criticism and betrayal that I named my first daughter after her.

But it wasn’t enough to solidify our bond, and we continued drifting apart despite living closer than we had in years at only an hour’s drive away. Our relationship continued to fray when I was put on bed rest for three months while pregnant with my second daughter and received little to no help from anyone in my family, including my sister. I’d always believed that it takes a village to raise a child, but my village just made everything harder and more complicated.

Instead of bringing the food, companionship, and emotional support I needed, I felt that they offered nothing but a steady stream of criticism.

The more distance I got from the chronic drama that seemed to follow my family of origin like a storm cloud, the more determined I was to break the cycle of intergenerational abuse, addiction, and toxicity, and give my daughters a better, calmer, and more loving childhood like the one I had always dreamed of.

My then-husband agreed and encouraged me to go no-contact with my family. It never occurred to me that he might stay in touch with them behind my back. Before I knew it, our marriage had disintegrated, and he was suing me for custody of our children, house, dog, and car.

By that point, I hadn’t spoken to my mother and sister in three years, so I was shocked when they filed declarations with the court in support of my ex, and V testified against me in a grueling, three-day trial that left me traumatized and heartbroken. Thankfully, I had many more loved ones who knew me well and supported me with their own testimony and declarations, so I was eventually awarded primary custody of our then 8- and 5-year-old daughters.

I was used to being betrayed by my mom, but my sister’s involvement surprised me, and I was desperate to understand why she would do such a thing.

Codependency therapy helped me realize it didn’t matter. V’s choices were on her, and although I felt persecuted and besieged, I took comfort knowing that my value system prevented me from making similar choices, and that I could teach my children a better, healthier way to be in relationship with each other.

I can't imagine ever trusting V again, but after 13 years, I did forgive her, and I learned a lot from the experience. 

First, I’m not alone. About half of US adults are currently estranged from at least one close relation, according to a November 2024 survey conducted by The Harris Poll. Of those, 35% report being estranged from an immediate family member such as a parent or a sibling.

Second, there are distinct risk factors for sibling estrangement. In her book, Brothers, Sisters, Strangers: Sibling Estrangement and the Road to Reconciliation, Fern Schumer Chapman says children raised in chaotic, abusive, or neglectful families like the one V and I grew up in run the greatest risk of estrangement, often shutting down and numbing themselves to their emotions, which effectively limits all relationships. She adds that poor communication skills modeled by parents who are unable to express feelings, negotiate differences, and model necessary skills of listening, apologizing, or cooling off can also be at the root of estrangement between siblings.

Third, and most important, my daughters deserved the freedom to be good sisters, and it was my responsibility to nurture a healthy, positive relationship between them. Instead of pitting them against one another in the ultimate competition for my love and approval, I encouraged them to be good to each other. I made sure they attended one another's arts, academic, and sports events so they could share in each other's joys and disappointments. I gave them projects to accomplish together and plenty of opportunities to revel in their shared annoyance of their mom.

Instead of belittling them for fighting, like my parents did, I taught them how to compromise, communicate, manage their emotions, and resolve their differences in at least a civilized manner if not a loving one. This doesn’t mean they don’t fight, they’re sisters with a nearly three-year age gap, so they’re known for some epic brawls, but they also have the skills to repair the ruptures and maintain an overall positive relationship, a form of generational wealth that my sister and I never experienced.

Finally, Schumer Chapman says that children tend to respond to turmoil in two ways, becoming closer and more bonded due to “their shared traumas or more often isolating from the family to take care of themselves.” While I’m in the latter camp, my 18- and 21-year-old daughters are solidly in the former, repeatedly turning toward one another and strengthening their relationship in the wake of our family’s divorce and other challenges. They’re also comfortable teaming up against me, which proves that I’ve succeeded in my goal of teaching them how to support each other and be good sisters, even at my own expense.Amber Campbell is a Seattle-based journalist and digital communications consultant writing about travel, health, culture, and parenting. She built the Rainier Valley Post, voted Best Local Website in Seattle by the Seattle Weekly, and more of her work can be found on her website.Do you have a personal story you’d like to see published on BuzzFeed? Send us a pitch at essay-pitch@buzzfeed.com.