I only have one.
She was born on Halloween, 1978.
As children, we played Barbies in the wee hours of the night, when we were supposed to be sleeping.
I treated her horribly most of the time, and she still loved me. I didn’t deserve it, but she did.
She still does, and thankfully, I grew up and stopped punishing her for things that weren’t her fault.
In fact, when she was a teenager, she moved in with me and our already blooming mother-daughter relationship became solidified.
I love her beyond measure or reason, and would give anything to ensure her safety and happiness.
I wept like a baby at her wedding. I distinctly remember thinking: She doesn’t need me anymore. It remains one of the most bittersweet, proud, and sad moments of my life.
When her first child was born, I felt like I finally understood the love grandparents have for their grandchildren. I felt the same with each additional child.
She is, quite simply, the most amazing and strong mother I have ever known. Her children are so incredibly lucky to have her. I wish I had been half the mother to my boys that she is to her young children.
She is passionate, free-spirited, hilarious, loving, and beautiful.
She is my sister, but more than that – my teacher, my confidant, my strong tower.
I think she’s always thought that I am stronger than her. But to be honest, I am strong because of her.
Without her, I wouldn’t have survived so many things.
I hope she knows that. I hope I make it obvious how important she is.
I hope she feels it in her bones, and it makes her stronger, too.