Dear Henry,

Everyone says you’re not my brother. But I know you are. I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday; it was one of the most confusing days of my life. I was eight years old and about to become a sister for the first time. I remember my mother being pregnant with you (well, I suppose she’s your mother too, but you know her better as Aunt Melinda). I had been excited ever since I had found out her stomach was so huge because she was about to have a baby. I loved babies and I was planning out everything we would do, every memory we would share as brother and sister. We would go to my favorite park, the one with the twisty slides, and I would get to push you there in the stroller. When you would get older, I would race you across the field. I wouldn’t go easy on you because I’d knew you’d beat me as soon as your legs grew strong enough. In the fall, we’d walk to school and I’d show you how to make friends on your first day of kindergarten. We’d do homework together (even though mine would be a lot harder than yours) and then we’d reward ourselves with ice cream from Mr. Cabelo’s truck when we were finished. I’d teach you to climb trees and over the summer we would build the best treehouse ever made in the old oak behind my house. But the minute after you were born, I was told I would never get to do any of that with you.

You should know that it’s not your fault. I suppose it’s not mine either, but I still feel a certain responsibility for your childhood even when I have no control over it. As your sister, I just want to grow up with you. But apparently, everyone in our family thinks that being your sister could jeopardize every lie they have carefully constructed around you. They think that if they call you my cousin, I somehow will mean less to you. I hope that’s not true. Even though we are never allowed to see each other except on the holidays, I still get to watch you be happy and alive. There is that stab of pain in my heart when I notice you look different every time I see you, but at least you are growing up. The closer you get to 18, the closer I am to being able to call you my brother.

I know it will hurt, the conversation we will have to have. No one else in our twisted family will talk about it with you, so I know it will have to be me. I will have to tell you that you are adopted and that your whole life has been something teetering on the edge of a lie.

When you were born, my (our) mother didn’t want another child. She was overworked and tight on money. I spent most of my childhood on laying on foam daycare mats waiting for her to come pick me up just before they closed. One of the reasons I was so excited about you being born was that I would get to spend my time with someone who wasn’t a childcare provider. Mother had other plans. Her sister, Aunt Linda, agreed to take you in, but didn’t want to have to deal with having you living between two households. She said she would adopt you only if you were treated by everyone else as her son. Otherwise, you would have to go live with a complete stranger. Although I am glad you are still within our family, I wish there was a solution where I would be allowed to just talk to you. You must think I’m a terrible ‘cousin’ whenever we come visit; I always act like I’m too good to play the younger children. That’s just what it is: an act.

This whole letter is an act, really. I’ll never be able to send this to you since it will break every ‘promise’ I have been forced to make under the guise of keeping you safe. Personally, I think Aunt Linda is being selfish by not sharing you with the rest of us, but I’m just a kid and apparently I can’t understand. This letter is more for me than you. I might show it to you one day; when we have that talk you deserve to hear. So I suppose this letter is for me now, but it’s also for you. So that you know you aren’t so alone as you may feel. So that when you find out who you are, you know I was always thinking of you as my brother.

Love,

Your sister