The year before I was born, my mom had an ectopic pregnancy. She didn’t even know she was pregnant until it happened; the baby was only six weeks or something like that.
When I was growing up, I always wanted a sister. Not a brother, but a sister. For a while, I wished I had a twin, as I suppose a lot of children do. Eventually, I moved on to wishing for an older sister. For some reason I daydreamed she would be named Mary, which is odd because I’m not even particularly fond of that name - who knows where I came up with the idea.
My mom said the other day that she thinks the doctors may have told my dad the baby would have been a girl, but she doesn’t know for sure because she was so medicated at the time and whatnot. I did a little research, and I don’t think it’s even possible for a baby’s sex to be determined at that early stage, but who knows.
All I know is, when I’ve gotten upset at my parents - most often my mother - and I’m lying in my bed at night trying not to cry, I honestly feel the presence of something. Like there is a sister out there somewhere, someone slightly older and wiser, trying to guide me, trying to reassure me that she truly understands. That yes, my parents are crazy (perhaps even literally), but she’ll be there for me when they act so erratically.
Maybe that sounds silly. I don’t really care how it sounds. I just wonder if it’s at all true.