I loved my sister. Believe me.
We lived our childhood together in the same room, with the same twin beds and the same pink bedspreads. On special occasions we were dressed in the same dresses that my mother sewed, and we wore the same patent-leather shoes. Our hair was cut the same, in my aunt's basement, lathered and rinsed in the cement laundry tub.
My aunt's speciality: the pixie cut, always too short and always shapeless.
My sister was younger, prettier, and didn't wear glasses. She wasn't clumsy and she could remember things easily. So she listened carefully when I explained the biggest secret of our same lives: mom had blue eyes, dad had blue eyes, I had blue eyes, she had brown eyes.
There were a lot of baby pictures of me, but not very many of her. It was very obvious, she was adopted. Naturally, if she would ask about it, mom and dad would deny it.
She believed me.
It was too easy.
When she found out, my mother was furious with me. My sister couldn't be convinced that my lie wasn't the truth. Today she still signs her
Christmas cards, jokingly, your adopted sister.