A Valentine to My Sister

This is a valentine for my sister. She knows exactly who she is. She wasn't born into that role; she grew into it. For a long time I believed I had only brothers, and I used to watch other women who had sisters with a quiet ache of wanting the same thing. Sisters squabble, sometimes they want what the other one has, and the two of us were no different. Somewhere along the way, though, a bond settled in between us, and I came to see her as someone picked out for me rather than handed to me by accident of birth.

Having two daughters of my own already felt like a full life. Then came a daughter through marriage, and I had no idea how much that would add. When I walk into a room with the three of them, pride is the first thing I feel. I also understand that I don't get to keep any of them to myself. There is her own mother to share her with, and mothers-in-law too.

Family can be built just as surely as it can be inherited. We picked up two fine sons by marriage as well, and my husband, now their father-in-law, holds them close in his own way. Nobody got subtracted from our family. A daughter marrying meant a son arriving, and the other way around. We owe a thank-you to the parents who raised these young people and then let us fold them into our own crowd of relatives.

The real windfall turned out to be everything that followed: nieces and nephews, cousins, grandchildren we all claim together. Love behaves oddly that way. Give more of it out and somehow the supply keeps growing.

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