Letters

Sandra Achen
Somewhere in Liverpool
20th November 2004

Dear arrogant, ignorant little brother,

I am fine, thank you for asking about my health… in passing. And I did not “whine and whine,” I simply mentioned that I have a cold—not the flu, just a cold—thanks to the below-zero temperatures that plague us daily. I got sick. You, however, would not last a day here, you big crybaby. I promise.

How is our mother? Your frustration with her playing all those love songs is probably what led to you becoming a pseudo-cynic. Yes, pseudo-cynic is exactly what you are, little brother. You’re a closet romantic, wanting to show the world that you don’t believe in the claptrap that seems to ensnare everyone, but secretly seeking the comforts of said claptrap in the privacy of your room. Otherwise, you wouldn’t read the novels I keep sending you. I also seem to recall a certain incident of finding my Jackie Collins under your mattress… Care to explain that?

It brings me utmost pleasure to tell you this: You, my dear, are just like everybody else. See that twintuition you so repeatedly mocked back then? It’s coming back to bite you in the ass. Your exact words, I believe, were always: “That’s just superstitious crap that’s fed to the masses to make them believe that twins have more of a bond than normal siblings.”

HA!

Much as I love you, I will not be denied the chance to say this: I TOLD YOU SO!

Now, I’ll spare you the boring details of my life as an English student (not literature, English). I won’t even complain about the fact that my darn toes are freezing… Seriously, how do these people survive year after year? Nope, I won’t talk about that. Because this news is just too juicy! (Do not roll your eyes!)

Beautiful eyes? Lightning struck? An angel, no, a thousand angels? Ho! You, my dear brother, are a goner. And I’m so glad that you know you’re a bumbling idiot. I can just picture you falling over yourself and into those boxes.

I’m happy, though. For the longest time, I imagined you’d be living and leeching off me and my husband when we’re old and grey, no wife, no kids. Seriously, there was no hope for you… Well, until that letter. I’m so relieved!

I hope you get to know her name soon so that I can tease you mercilessly—and of course, be happy for you.

Yours truly,
Sandra

P.S. Could it be lust at first sight?
P.P.S. Please share the chocolates with the kids. They say you’re being mean. Also, enclosed is another Judith McNaught. I dare you not to read it.