“The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.”
– Proverb

“Do you hear me?” Mother never truly phrased it as a question. It was an accusation of disrespectful insubordination that equally scarred the eardrums and the heart. It suggested an irreparable fault that permeated a child to his core. Mother’s face twisted into a grimace, fingers curling into white-knuckled fists, as she prepared to back up the pain of her words with physical reinforcement. “Do you hear me?” I’d heard her a thousand times. Ever since I could remember, her inflammatory words had stung just as much as the rough leather belt had against my skin. This time was different – foreign in its familiarity. This time, my mother’s hostility wasn’t directed at me.

Years earlier, Mother had gotten remarried to Glenn, an outwardly indolent, lackadaisical little man. His selfish, unmotivated mettle was evident to me from the moment I met him; not even the presence of his charming daughter, my stepsister, Aren, could brighten my view of him. Despite everyone’s promises of new familial unity, Glenn’s stark deviation from the hardworking manner of my mother and me was evident both physically and emotionally from the start. I had never been particularly disappointed with Glenn for his natural, personal shortcomings, but rather for his pathetic, ineffective dealings with my mother’s abuse and his inability to protect his children from her wrath.

On one particular “family” vacation, we never walked anywhere together. The hidden, obstinate pride of both my mother and stepfather ripped a wide chasm through the weak bonds of kinship we had forged since the beginning of the marriage. Our conglomerate of six was split: Glenn, my stepsister Aren, and my half-sister Saia became isolated from my infant half-sister Danei, Mother, and me – two parties stuck on opposite sides of a deep canyon of rancor.

“Stop walking so fast!” said Mother in a thick Argentinean accent. “How dare you leave me back here,” she shrieked through clenched teeth, “with the stroller and the baby? The least you can do is stop!”

“What the hell do you expect me to do? Wait for you indefinitely?” retorted Glenn. “Stop being so controlling!”

Such an exchange was just the tip of the iceberg. Each of the children, regardless of age, assumed a look of quiet submission, reluctantly accepting the promise of sustained conflict. We had all learned to expect this sort of emotionally destructive exchange; the only one truly unaware was Mother herself. I had always loathed this period, the span of time after the spark but before the inferno: the calm before the storm.

The next morning, the clash came to a head. “Hey mom?” I inquired, turning the corner into the kitchen of our hotel room. “Do we have any milk left?”

“I don’t know, go check the fridge,” replied mom, in a rare moment of even-handed calm. “By the way – “

“By the way,” Glenn interjected, “guess who forgot to lift the seat of the toilet so Aren could use it?” He implied my culpability, but spoke instead to my mother – Glenn’s passive aggressive manner was defined by his cowardice.

“How can you possibly assume my son did it? You probably forgot to lift the seat yourself while you were preoccupied reading the damn newspaper!” said Mother. My mom has always been abusive; however, empowered by innate, biological instincts, she would stop at nothing to protect her first child. Those very maternal instincts had motivated her to push me to succeed from the very beginning – they caused not only my stringent work ethic, but also her overbearing tyranny. Once more, those instincts would cause her to cross the line. The conflict now completely transcended the toilet seat; it had become about headstrong convictions, mutual respect, and familial allegiances.

Mother continued, approaching Glenn slowly, “You know, you and Aren are always trying to get him in trouble. I bet Aren told you that he forgot to lift the seat.” She turned to face Aren, her voice ascending in both pitch and intensity. “Why can’t you do it yourself? Just leave him alone!” Aren began to bawl, her howls echoing through my mind, my heart. “Do you hear me?” Mother cried.

All I could hear was the silence. Its nagging, incessant hum filled my ears as I watched Mother draw her hand back to strike my stepsister. Though her calculated assault wasn’t trained on me, I could feel my characteristic fight-or-flight response kick in, heightening my senses. I flew across the room, heart pounding, muscles clenched; my palms connected with Mother’s body. I heard a thud as she hit the floor, but refused to turn back, partially out of shame, partially out of fear.

I rushed my stepsister out of the room, down the hotel corridor, and around a sharp corner. She let out a choked, staggered sigh as she leaned back against the wall and slid down to the floor, tucking her knees into her chest, making herself as small as possible. My eyes widened. I recognized her physical and emotional reaction as my own. I sat to join her, wrapping my arm around her trembling body; only then did I notice that I myself continued to shake, my muscles still twitching from my physical outburst. “Aren,” I murmured, “why are you crying?” It was the only phrase that managed to come out clearly.

“She – she screamed at me,” Aren cried. She had never before been exposed to the true potency of Mother’s venom.

“Listen to me. She’s clinically insane. She needs help.” For the first time, I knew in my heart that it was indelibly true. The welts and bruises she’d left on my skin over the years had healed, but the associated emotional scars would never fade. “She doesn’t know how to communicate with other people, much less children.” So what if she’s my mom, I thought. “I will always protect you from her abuse, and that’s a promise. I don’t care who sides with whom: our bond – our strength – MUST go beyond family ties,” I proclaimed.

Then, as if to add weight to my words, a stream of vulgarities echoed down the hall, my mother’s voice intertwining with my stepfather’s into a sustained torrent of acrimony. In a ferocious rage, Glenn staggered down the hall toward us. He turned the corner, stopped, and fixed his anger-crazed eyes on mine.

“You know,” Glenn shouted, loud enough for my mother to hear even over Danei’s frightened screams, “Danei isn’t your sister at all.” I inhaled sharply. “Your mother and I used a donor egg to conceive; you aren’t even blood related!”

I opened my lips to speak, but found my mouth too dry to make a sound. Unsure of my next move, I squeezed my sister’s shoulder tighter. Looking beyond Glenn, I noticed that Mother had approached, trailing Glenn, her mouth open, eyes wet. Mother’s face mirrored Aren’s face; as mother and stepdaughter, their tears bound them together better than any “familial” bonds ever could.

My stepfather’s offense suggested a very superficial understanding of love. My truest loves will never follow the faux loyalty set out strictly by genetics; I will break organic connections to fortify emotional ones. The water in tears – mutually shed – builds bridges far stronger than could ever be built with the hollow amniotic bonds of heredity alone.

Willingness to reach outside chains of consanguinity to find deep, passionate connections nurtures our most human qualities: emotional flexibility and psychological strength. Our identities, at their most noble, may be demonstrated best by the capacity to honor relationships we have forged with acts of the heart over assumed relationships coded biologically into our beings.

To those who question the strength of love, the undying respect and defense of those dear to us, I ask, “Do you hear me?”