Me and My Sister

When we were little, the world was just me, my sister Tara, and the narrow lane behind our house that led to the woods. That path, cracked with roots and shaded by trees that whispered secrets, was our kingdom. She was the queen, of course—bossy and brave—while I, two years younger, was the loyal sidekick with scraped knees and a tendency to cry when things got too wild.

Tara was the kind of kid who ran headfirst into life. She climbed trees so tall my stomach flipped just watching her. She'd leap from swings at their highest arc, and never flinched when Dad yelled at us for tracking mud into the kitchen. I, on the other hand, colored inside the lines, hated getting in trouble, and read books in the closet because it was quiet.

But we were inseparable.

Every summer, we'd build forts out of couch cushions, play detective with notebooks and magnifying glasses, and stay up whispering about what we’d be when we grew up. She said she’d be a pilot. I told her I just wanted to work in a library. She rolled her eyes at that. “You’ll write books, dummy. Not just read them.”

We fought, too. We once didn’t talk for a whole week because she tore the cover off my favorite journal. Another time, I got her grounded by tattling about the dent she left in Dad’s truck with her bike. But no matter what, we always circled back—apologies scribbled on sticky notes or peace treaties negotiated over bowls of cereal.

Then came high school.

That’s when everything started to shift. Tara stayed wild—maybe too wild. She dyed her hair purple, skipped class, hung out with older kids. I tried to keep up, but the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t explain. She started sneaking out, and when I threatened to tell Mom, she looked at me like I was the enemy.

“You’re not my mother, Sam,” she snapped one night, her voice cold and unfamiliar. “Stop acting like it.”

That hurt more than I admitted.

She got in trouble—a lot. Suspensions. A shoplifting incident. Mom cried in the bathroom once, and I pretended not to hear. Dad yelled more, slammed doors. The house felt like a war zone. Meanwhile, I threw myself into school, into trying to be the "good kid." I thought maybe if I behaved perfectly, I could fix everything.

But nothing worked.

Then, one night in late November, Tara didn’t come home.

We waited. Mom paced. Dad drove around town. I sat in her room, her worn hoodie clutched in my hands, heart hammering with every passing minute. When she finally walked through the door at 3 a.m., she looked like a ghost—wet hair, scraped palms, mascara streaked. She didn’t say where she’d been.

That night, I crawled into bed beside her like I did when we were kids. I didn’t ask questions. I just held her hand under the covers until she fell asleep.

By senior year, she was gone—moved out to live with some guy in another state. We barely talked. She missed my graduation. I cried about it in the bathroom, then gave the valedictorian speech like everything was fine.

Years passed.

We kept in touch, kind of. Birthday texts. Occasional phone calls that always started with “How are you?” and ended with “We should talk more.” But we didn’t. Life got busy. I went to college. She bounced from job to job. I moved to the city. She stayed wherever the wind took her.

Then, one day, I got a voicemail from her. She sounded… different. Softer. Older.

“Hey, Sam. I just—uh—wanted to say I’m sorry. For everything. I’m trying to get my life together. And I miss you. Just… call me back, okay?”

I did. And we talked for two hours that night.

She told me she was sober now. Working as a mechanic. She had a cat named Gremlin and was thinking about going back to school. I cried when she said, “I’m finally proud of something I’m doing.”

We started calling every week. Then, she came to visit. We sat on my apartment floor, eating takeout, laughing until we cried about things from childhood—about the time she convinced me ghosts lived in our attic or when she dared me to kiss the neighbor kid.

She was still Tara. Still wild. But gentler. Wiser. And for the first time in years, we felt like sisters again.

Now, when I look back on everything—every fight, every tear, every shared joke—I don’t see a broken relationship. I see two girls growing up the only way they knew how. I see resilience. I see forgiveness.

I see love.

Because no matter how far we wandered from each other, we always found our way back.

Through laughter, fights, and forever.