My name starts with a K, and people misspell it all the time. It’s also really common and has been for centuries, there are hundreds of variants, and almost everyone in my family has one exactly like it. My mom has even said things to me like ‘Hey Kristen, no wait, Kaitlyn, no, Karen, Katherine, Kelly, Katie, oh, whatever your name is…’ (not even exaggerating).

Anyway, my oldest cousin, whose name fits these parameters, had a baby girl, and she deigned to curse her with the same thing. And she gets so much attention. Everyone knows her as the happy, sweet, cute baby who never cries and is pretty much the epitome of perfection in everything she does.

I wouldn’t care, but my family didn’t even know I existed until I was 2, and all I ever hear stories about are how cranky and bad I was, how I cried all the time, how my brother was peacefully born at home and I was delivered in a hospital with drugs, how poor my parents were so I didn’t get any of the things she does, etc.

Point is, I hate her. She’s done nothing to me but I hate her. A few days ago I went to visit that branch of the family, and at one point I was alone. To my left was her sippy cup, with juice inside, and I seriously considered pouring bleach in it. If I hadn’t spent 20 minutes feeling guilty for thinking such things before I decided to, or if my brother hadn’t sat down across from me to read his book right as I was getting up to do it, I hate to think what could have happened.

And yet I wish I had. I’ve never liked babies, but a year ago I wouldn’t have thought I’d try to murder one in cold blood. I hate myself for it, yet I can’t help but wish I had gone through with it. I don’t know how I can live with myself after this. I’ve done bad things before, but never on this scale. She’s still alive and perfect, but I can’t help feeling like I killed her. And I can’t help wanting to try again.