I am Jane Franklin Mecom, you may know me as Benjamin Franklin’s sister. It saddens me that this is all I am known for, living in the shadows of my brilliant brother. I sit at my wooden desk as I write this letter. This desk is much like my life, bland, common, and unsteady. Against poverty and ignorance, Benjamin prevailed and I did not. I try not to let the jealousy overwhelm me, but it is harder than it seems. At 15 years old I married, I was pregnant. My brother and I are very close, we write letters to each other still. His letters are warm, funny, and delightful to read. While mine are nothing but trouble. It is surprising that I can even write, because I am a woman. Is that fair? I’m not quite sure. I had one child after another, as my husband, a saddler named Edward Mecom, is nearly losing his mind. My two sons already have, I do not get a moments rest. I feel as if my life is slipping through my boney fingers. Still, I have a thirst for knowledge. I read as much as I dare to. I do not mean to sound selfish, but I could be just as smart as Benjamin, if I was given the opportunity. If I was respected like he was. But sadly, none of these things are true, and I do not know if they ever will be.

I am looking around my dimly lit house. It is run down, not a desirable place to live, especially with as many kids as I have.  My kitchen is small, as every other room in my house. Do not pity me though, it is partly my fault. I was the one who married this foolish man, watching him as he makes quick decisions, causing our family to fall farther and farther into debt. People say I am a beauty, with a moon face, dark hair, delicate brows, and round eyes. Usually I would be flattered, to women, their appearance is a very important factor of life. But when I look in the mirror all I can see is failure, hope drained from my complexion. I sometimes wonder if others see it too. Am I part of the town’s gossip? Most likely, everyone is in this small town. I am the usual outlet for people’s gossip, I hear what is said about people, from both sides. This is scary to me, I beat myself up enough about how desperately I have failed in this lifetime. The last thing I need is others doing the same.  

I sit and breathe, the musky air of my dirty house filling my lungs. I hold my breathe and close my eyes, letting my imagination wander. I see myself in a brilliant mansion, cleanly decorated having many shades of white in it’s palette. I look up feeling the warm fire from the stove. There, I see myself. This is not just a picture and I am almost positive it is not a mirror. It is a portrait of me. I was surrounded by riches, and sketches. One was odd in particular, a familiar drawing. It was a plan, my invention.

          My eyes shoot open, heaving in the air I have lost. I feel something underneath my hand, it was the sketch. It was ripped and had sprinkles of dirt all over the delicate paper. A single tear slips out of my eye, I am not part of that life. I look around, just making sure I wasn’t still encountering a daydream. My lip was trembling, sadness was overcoming the rest of my emotions. I was back in the reality of my life, and had the worst of all feelings, disappointment.

My youngest daughter creeps through the doors, she has been watching me.

        “What’s that mommy?” her small finger innocently pointed towards my drawing.

        “Nothing sweetie.” I said quickly and cold. I tuck away the paper in the first drawer.

         “Why are you crying?”

         “I just,” I stutter, “Miss my brother, that’s all.”

          “Me too,” she says looking down at the ground. She was referring to my oldest son, what a wise man. So much potential, but struck by the harshness of reality. He drove himself insane. Later, dying as many of my children did.

“I know,” I pull her into a tight hug. She has so many questions, so many wonders. Will anything come out of her seeking for answers? No. Only sadness. That is the story of me, not much really. I doubt I will even be remembered. I hope whomever is reading the letter shall not experience the pain I did. But then again, pain comes with wisdom. Remember that.