The Only Child with Four Siblings

By Ayanna M McNeill

There have been many relationships in my life whose endings caused me pain, regret, and—if I’m honest—resentment. But none hit as hard as the slow, quiet ache of being emotionally estranged from my own blood. That’s a different kind of wound. It’s not the kind I speak about often, but it lives in me. I’ve tried to name it: abandonment? Disconnection? Rejection? But none of those fully capture the hollowness of being part of a family that doesn’t feel like family.

I’m not an only child. Technically, I’m the youngest of four. My parents met later in life, each bringing children from previous marriages. By the time I was born in 1987, my oldest sister Cathy already had three children. My brothers Amadou and Alton were both 14, and my brother Tony was 9. Amadou and Tony lived with me when I was born, while Cathy and Alton did not. From the outside looking in, we were a blended, big, beautiful Black family. But on the inside, it didn’t feel like that.

My early memories of sibling connection are mostly shadows. When I was three, we moved from Brooklyn to Georgia. Amadou was 17 and gone shortly after. Tony left a few years later. And just like that, I became the only child left in the house. Cathy was always more like an aunt to me—already a grown woman when I was born. I knew Alton was my brother in name, but I didn’t actually know him until I was in high school. My father, who stayed home while my mother worked, became my best friend and playmate. My siblings had their own lives. I had mine, mostly alone.

By the time we moved back to Brooklyn when I was nine or ten, the household was quieter than ever. My parents and my grandmother Meryl were the only family left in my world. Holidays and school breaks brought my siblings back temporarily, but the connections felt formal—never rooted. I craved what my friends had: siblings who were up in each other’s business, arguing, laughing, protecting. I wanted the “don’t make me call my brother” kind of bond. But that wasn’t my story.

College came, and while I was growing into young adulthood, my siblings were already raising kids, navigating marriages, or in Amadou’s case—serving time. Cathy was probably already a grandmother. Alton was raising his own family. Tony was newly married and living with his family in our mother’s home. Life had separated us even further.

Still, I found comfort in my brother’s wives and in becoming an aunt. I loved the idea of gaining sisters-in-law, of building bridges where childhood never built them. But those bridges never grew into highways. We aged, but we didn’t grow closer. Amadou was incarcerated. I was too self-absorbed or perhaps emotionally unequipped to show up the way I now wish I had. Tony was building a life of his own, and the rest of my siblings remained distant. Whenever we were together, it was always love—but also detached. I felt like more like distant cousins, not siblings.

The turning point came when Amadou was murdered in 2006. I was twenty years old. The pain hit me harder than I expected. It cracked something open in me—and in my family. Instead of bringing us together, his death fractured what little bond we had left. My mother’s grief turned inward and against others. My father retreated. My remaining siblings disappeared further into their own lives. And I was just… there. Carrying my own grief, ignored.

We never spoke about it. Not Amadou’s death. Not my father’s death. Not the loss of my grandmother Meryl, the woman who helped raise all of us. Monumental losses in our family—and not a single conversation between siblings. I lived through a devastating house fire with my mother and I don’t even remember a visit from them. I kept showing up for life, for healing, for survival. But often, it was just my mother and me. And that shit was hard.

Becoming a mother changed me. When I adopted my daughter Trinity at 35, my siblings were kind, welcoming, even supportive. I felt seen—for a moment. I asked Tony and his wife to be her godparents, hoping this would root a deeper bond between our families. We had a beautiful dedication ceremony. And I hoped. I dreamed of big family gatherings, birthday parties, Sunday dinners. I imagined my daughter growing up knowing the kind of familial closeness I always longed for.

But that dream hasn’t come true. There are no calls. No visits. No consistent presence. Just more distance. And I don’t know why. Nothing specific happened that I can name. No major fight, no betrayal. Just silence. Just space. Just indifference. And I’m still trying to understand it.

I’ve made peace with the truth that I may never know the whole story. I’ve tried to lead with grace, to not allow hurt to harden me. But it’s lonely to move through life still feeling like the only child in a family of four. It’s painful to watch the ones you love show up for others in ways they’ve never shown up for you. I no longer expect the closeness I once prayed for—but I still mourn the absence of it.

Today, I live with the tension of wanting to remain open to reconciliation while also honoring my own boundaries. I don’t want to keep granting access to people who don’t seem to value it. But I also don’t want to become someone so hurt that I shut out the possibility of healing. So I stay torn. And I stay prayerful. Because I still believe God has the final say. And maybe—just maybe—there’s still time for restoration.

Family.