For the first time in my life, last month I met my sister for the first time. I am currently nineteen years old, and I went for all nineteen of those years without ever knowing what it was like to have a sister, even though I did know, technically, that I had one.
I must say it is very different, to have gone through life being an only child, and then to have it all tipped over, and become not an only child, but a person with a sister, a half brother, and countless step-siblings.
All my life I wanted someone to have to talk to, and play with, and just do things with. ….and now I do. Crazy, right?
We like all the same things, make the same faces, and can talk for hours about anything. It's almost like I've known her my whole life.
But I haven't.
I was adopted at birth, and although meeting my sister has been great, it's something else entirely to meet my birth mother. She's not my mom- I already have one of those- but she's not just another random person that I'm friends with. I don't rightly know what to call her. I feel okay calling these new grandparents grandparents, and I'm fine calling my sister sister, but the woman who gave birth to me can't be called my mom. So what am I supposed to call her?
I've settled on Becky, and until I come up with a better nickname, that's what she'll be.
And I'm happy, I think, to have all this new family. It's great to have so many new people who care about me, even if it's a little overwhelming at times.
And they'll always be family, even if I do awful things, or even if it turns out we're not as similar as we thought we were, or even if I am the most boring obnoxious person ever. And that makes it all worth it.