Wrong Daughter

I have a sister. She's older than me. Older by about 13 years. She also looks startling like me. Or I look like her, since I'm the younger one. We don't talk a lot, or at all, and we only see each other on rare family get-togethers. But every time we do see one another, we tend to look the same. Same hair styles, same hair colors. Same clothing choices. We also have the same eerie addiction to yummy hand lotions and other potions you find at Caswell Masey. All this despite not actually having lived together at all.

Regardless, we are pretty similar. And to add to our weird genetic link we also were both given names starting with "K". Hers is a semi-indian name (Native American name) while mine is a semi-scottish one. They don't sound alike, or look the same on paper. They aren't similar in sound. The only similarity is the letter "K".

You would think with the way my parents easily confess that they are scatterbrains, they would name their two daughters something completely different. Like Susan and Maryann or Padra and Carly. Something that's not easily mixed up. Something that would be distinctive based on each distinctive girl. But they didn't. Instead I grew up most of my life being called my sisters name - regardless of the fact that my sister moved out of the house by the time I was four.

It did offer some amusement for me at times. I do remember being bellowed at by my Father while he repeatedly called me by her name. Likewise, my Mother liked to give me compliments, that were always a bit tainted because she used my sisters name to offer them. And in my most bratty teenage years I got a lot of mileage out of a rueful stare and a coolly uttered:

"You have the wrong daughter."

The mileage on that one ran a little thin after awhile though. They may have been yelling at me using the wrong name, but they definitely meant to be yelling at me.

Once I moved out it got better. It's harder to call someone the wrong name when you're writing a letter or making the effort to call on the phone.

Well, harder, but not impossible. Especially for my Mother, as evidenced by the last two voicemails I received on my cellphone today:

Message 1:
"Hi K******, I'm just calling to let you know that the doctors didn't find anything wrong, so it's all done. Talk to you soon. Love Mom"

Message 2: (Following right after)
"Hi Kathryn, I'm just calling to let you know that the doctors didn't find anything wrong, so it's all done. Talk to you soon. Love Mom"

Message in Reply:
"Hi Mom, it's me. Glad to hear you're fine. By the way, call K******, she didn't get your message. Trust me."

Love your daughter: K-A-T-Y