When I turned six years old, something happened, which changed my whole world in the most drastic way: a baby sister walked into my life.
Before she appeared, my own little “I” had always seemed to me, however unwittingly, the center of the universe. It seemed that my mother, my nanny, our tiny and cramped apartment — all this was created for me and me alone. Of course, these weren’t conscious thoughts, but such was my perception of the world. My mother was “everything” to me. I could not imagine my life without her. Instinctively I demanded her presence and her love, just as I demanded air, nourishment and rest. And I was satisfied with whatever love and affection my mother gave me, because I had not known any other. I have no doubt that my mother loved me, but when I was born she was still full of her personal drama with my father and her still-young life, so I always took a back seat in her heart. And my sister — perhaps “thanks to” her sickliness and fragility— immediately became the most important person in mother’s life. Mother loved her zealously, adored her every move; and with my tender childish heart I saw what true mother’s love could be and that I didn’t have that love, that I had to settle for scraps. I wasn’t mistreated or punished, I was merely thrust aside. I always felt like a fifth wheel: there was no place for me in mother’s arms, they always held my sister. I constantly heard the words: “You’re bigger, let her have it, move aside, make room…”
In any case, I’ve seen my share of suffering, just as anyone else: I’ve lost loved ones and buried feelings of the deepest kind, but those first lessons of sorrow, solitude and yearning that my seven-year-old heart had to endure will remain with me forever.