Chapter Four

I Was a Secret From the Past

Would I ever find my sister?

Confessions from our past, regrets of lost time, and future possibilities filled our three-hour conversation. With reluctance, we finally said goodbye, but only after promising to email each other photos of ourselves the next day so we could see if we looked alike.

After hanging up the phone, I ran up the stairs, three steps at a time. I jumped on the bed and woke my husband. I told him everything, unable to contain my excitement.

I plopped my head on the pillow and told him I couldn’t believe she actually wanted to get to know me.

My husband wrinkled his eyebrows and said, “Of course she does, why wouldn’t she?” We talked a bit more and he went back to bed.

Countless nights I’d envisioned this moment, sleep was not an option.

Early the next morning. I searched for the best picture I could find of myself. I struggled and found fault with each one, that creeping feeling that I was still tarnished, stained.

What if she changed her mind? What if I was prettier? What if she was? Did it matter?

I take after my father’s side of the family. Standing at 5’9 with blondish hair and a complexion Mom calls peaches and cream, plus green eyes and full lips, that Mom says are just like his.

I was self-conscious, unsure of what my sister might think of me. Would we look alike? Would my sister resemble my father too? Or her mother? My mind was on a circular loop.

I bit my lip, chose a few pictures, and pressed send.

Early the next morning, I told my kids about the phone call and their newfound cousins. My sister’s family lived just three hours away. My husband suggested we get a hotel for the weekend– just my sister and me, to get to know each other.

I kept checking my email, waiting for her picture. I could hardly wait. The day was filled with bubbliness, possibilities circled through all our minds. I must have checked my phone at least fifty times throughout the day.

That evening, I played Monopoly with the kids to keep myself busy and distracted. So, it wasn’t until later in bed that uncertainty and doubt finally took over. Was she busy? Having second thoughts? Unsure of what to think, I reminded myself not to let my mind run wild. She might have simply had a busy day.

The next morning, I checked my email sent box. Maybe my message hadn’t gone through? It had. I figured I’d for sure get a response from my sister before the day was over. I wasn’t going to worry too much. I had things to do.

But the daily tasks dragged as I kept checking my inbox in spite of myself, willing my sister’s picture to appear. My mind replayed our conversation again and again. Had I missed something or offended her in some way?

The kids kept asking if she had responded and I realized I should have waited before telling them anything.

That night, my husband asked if she had emailed yet. I shook my head with forced nonchalance. Seeing through me, he said, “Don’t let it bother you. She’s the one missing out. You’ve gone this long without her, and you have a good life.”

I understood what he was saying. It made sense. Still, it didn’t feel so cut and dried.

As reality began sinking in, the heaviness of the bottom-line anchored in.

I tried rationalizing, seeking to understand how difficult her position must be, rather than wallowing in the sense that I wasn’t enough. Sleep was hard to find.

I told the kids the next morning. They put on smiles and said it was okay. My daughter put her hand on my shoulder and smiled softly. I sensed their disappointment but was helpless to take it away.

I never wanted them to experience any form of rejection from this part of my past. I packed everyone up, and we went for root beer floats. I’d braced myself for this possibility. I told myself it shouldn’t hurt.

I wished I could take my pictures back.

Now, five years later, I still reserve hope. Maybe one day it will feel right for my sister to reach out. Or not. I’m no longer searching, waiting for acceptance or absolution from a family that was never mine.

Before calling my sister, I’d upheld the shame, allowing an undignified past to haunt me, as though somehow providing redemption.

In a poetic unveiling, these years have offered a deeper, slower reflection. They provided the awareness that my way to existence never had the power– or right, to define me.

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