I Never Wanted One
I grew up with two brothers, two very wonderful, bizarre, awkward, and in their own right loving brothers. Even as a very young girl I knew how fortunate I was to not only be the youngest child but to also be the only the girl in the family. I was sitting pretty, in my life of the entitled, blonde ringlet-ed little girl, who always got her own room and never had to wear hand-me-downs.
I never wanted a sister. I always knew that if I had one she would be far more beautiful, intelligent and captivating than I. Although I would never say it out loud, I was very grateful that my mother was unable to have more children after me. With her overly large heart she would have kept going, until she had at least ten kids. I relished in my spot in the family. I was always convinced that I was my parents secretly favorite child. Nothing against my brothers, I was just unique!
But then I met her, I met my sister. And yes she was all that I ever assumed my sister would be. She was smart, beautiful, charming and had a way better body than me. On top of all that she was an artist, just like my mother, something that I certainly was not.
My mother actually met her first, as a student in her class. She called me one day, in my freshmen year of college and told me she had met this girl, and had the weirdest feeling that she just belonged in our family. My mom claimed that she had envisioned us living in an apartment together when we were older. I brushed it off and chopped it up to my mom being her typically, spiritual self. She always formed an attachment to her students so I didn’t read too much into it.
When our paths did finally cross it was in a completely unforced and casual manner. I was waiting for my mom to finish a class at her school, when I was home for spring break. She sat down next to me on the wooden bench in the very sterile hallway and we laughed about random things that my mom would say or do. At the time I didn’t even put two and two together, that she was the girl my mom had spoken of.
My sister, as I would eventually come to know her as, got into some amazing art schools, due to her incredible talent. Yet for some reason she decided to go to a simple state school in Vermont, and it just so happened that it was the same school I went to. Obviously we crossed paths and I was always so happy to see her, and since her family was out of state, I always brought her home to my family whenever possible. It was undeniable that I had a strange connection with her, even though I didn’t know her that well. We didn’t necessarily hang out that often, even though all my friends adored her. We didn’t even really have anything in common, other than the fact that we both loved my mom and my dad’s cooking. And yet we continued to always be in one another’s life. It seemed that whenever my life was falling apart I would seek her out.
The first summer after her freshman year, she subleased a place right down the road from where I was living. That summer I had the first of many life shattering events and after my world, as I knew it then, fell apart, I retreated to her apartment. I actually moved in for the rest of the summer, fulfilling the first part of my mother’s prophecy. This would be the first time of four that we would live together, and not all in one state.
Sixteen years later, four apartments, two coasts, mass amounts of crying, quite a few Vicodin, countless heartbreaks, a few great road trips and our fair share of fights, I have a sister. She has to be my sister because there is no other way we would have survived. We have different passions, habits, hobbies and style (well she has style, I have a lack thereof) She does art with my mother and drinks whisky with my father. She knows every detail of my life and probably talks to my mom as much as I do. She is in fact, just as my mother said, part of our family.
I never wanted a sister, but I have one, and I would not change it for the world, because I need one. I could not imagine my life without her. From Vermont, to Lake Tahoe, to San Francisco, we have done it together, when no one else could even fathom what it’s like to keep searching. We have supported each other, talked sense into each other and been there for one another, in the way that only family can do. I love my sister, and I’m so grateful that I met her in the manner that I did. If she had been born into my family a year after me, I would have grown up with the resentment of having a sister who was prettier, funnier and more lovable than me. Instead my sister came into my life at a time when I needed her most, and when I was mature enough to love her for her qualities, and cherish her for her being, and thank her for her love. I love my sister, even if she is, most likely, my parents real favorite.