My sister, Amy, loved me when we were kids. I guess I loved her, too. But she was little. She didn’t understand. I know I wasn’t nice enough to her. And I’ve been working for years to make it up to her. And sadly, she’s hours away. I don’t see her enough. I have regrets. I should have tried harder. I love her daughters. I love her. And I’m going to tell this story of a memory of my baby sister and maybe, just maybe, I’ll win the DC Cupcakes contest. If I do, I’ll buy her something she’d never buy herself. (I already have an idea!)

So my little sister.

My sister, Amy.

She was always the sweet one.

And one day, she bought me a book. It was one of those little books. Like the Joan Walsh Anglund books. But not. It was about sisters. How they loved and supported each other. It was insightful and beautiful.

And I did not appreciate it.

Not nearly enough.

I remember thinking that it did not pertain. To us.

And though I loved her, I could not relate. I was the big one. She was the little one.

She should look up to me.

And she did.

Was I deserving of that? In hindsight? Clearly not as much as I thought. That’s for sure.

And my baby sister was the sweetest of all sweet. Would never hurt a fly. Would do anything for me.

She was an angel.

And I.

I did not appreciate her. At least not enough.

But somewhere, I must have known. Because I saved that book. I saved it through college. Through my apartments – one every year for 6 years. Through my failed marriage. Through my move out of that part of my life.

I saved that book as I bought my own home. Alone, as an independent woman. And I saved it as I married my husband of 17 years and as we moved halfway across the country to Nebraska.

And I saved it all the way back to the East Coast after my father got sick and we moved back to this part of the world. And I saved it as I had 3 sons. And into my new home.

And recently.

Very recently.

I gave that book to my baby sister, now the mother of 3 amazing daughters, and told her I loved her and was sorry I wasn’t a better sister.

And we hugged. And cried.

We are different, my sister and I.

But I love her. For exactly who she is. And that? That will never change.

I know she loves the book I gave back to her. I know she knows what it stands for.

My sister.

She is a religious woman. Raising a religious family.

And I respect that.

When they come to visit, we prepare meals that work with their guidelines. We buy new pots and pans and read all the labels.

So they’ll be comfortable.

I hope I have many more years to be a good sister to my sister.

Because I love her.

And because I owe her.


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