Read This When You Turn 15

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Read This When You Turn 15 is a kinetic epistolary entry made in Ink, from the perspective of a sibling who cannot take care of his baby adopted sister. It is an emotional 499-word piece, that shook me to the core. It is a thing with Kastel’s pieces that touches on very specific things that will resonate with people, often because they themselves have experienced it (fully or close enough to it).

I am still unsure how to read the piece, whether we are the big brother penning an apology letter, or the little sister finding it on her birthday (or early). It might not matter much, but depending on the POV, the reading will take a different tone. I think my personal experiences made me orbit more towards the writing of the letter. The revealing truth bombs*, necessary to understand how they came to that point, the sorrows and the guilt for doing it in such a way and for leaving, and still throughout it all, the love for their sibling, no matter what, unconditional and unwavering, even if not wanted.
*the webcam one really broke me.

The cadence of each paragraph, through repeated reminders of love (from the brother) and of hate (towards the failing mother*), drives the same message again and again: not enough had been done for you, it is not your fault, you can and should be angry about it. There are reminders of love given, never enough, never the right kind, never from the right person, and of fears, of never being enough or not being able to do enough (because you are not what they need). A childhood marked by actions out of her control, and out of his.
*interesting thing: only the mother is mentioned in the story. Is the father absent? Or his presence so inconsequential to the dynamic that he might as well be absent? Or the requirement of providing love or care to a child not being the father’s?

I have not written this letter, but I’ve written similar letters/messages before. Burning one’s self to protect others is only possible for so long, until you are no more but a shadow of yourself. Yet, the guilt of saving one’s self always remains. And so does the love.

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