The Magic of Story

Baby Sister

   It was about last May when I first suspected my mother was pregnant. I had just woken up, listening to a coughing sound I had barely heard before. It was a few moments later when I realized that it wasn't coughing, it was the sound of someone throwing up. The sound of sickness.

  I got up out of bed and cautiously peeked into my parents' bathroom, and there my mother was, kneeling over the toilet. My dad was also there, holding my mom's hair back. I left the room before either of them saw me, heading to the kitchen with a sinking feeling in my stomach, knowing my life would never be the same.

  A couple of weeks later, Mom announced that she was going to have a baby. I tried to act all excited and happy, but I really just wanted to curl up into a little ball and cry.

  I was an only child. And I liked it- my parents were always there for me, and had plenty of time to spend with me. Birthdays were great- and don't even get me started about Christmas!

  Occasionally, I did feel lonely. I wanted to hang out with someone other than my parents. The thought of having a sister or brother never occurred to me, because I could simply ask my parents if I could hang out with a friend.

  But now everything was baby, baby, baby, and no one ever gave me a second glance. When my mom got her gender reveal, I found out that I was getting a baby sister.

  Great. Pink. The one color I hated more than any other.

  One night, my mother's water broke. We were at the dinner table, struggling to pick up our California sushi rolls up with our chopsticks, when she lurched out of her chair, holding her large stomach, her legs dripping wet. I thought she had peed when I realized: Oh no. Her water broke.

  We rushed her to the hospital. I almost cried, thinking about losing everything I had. You see, this wasn't all about my parents. I was a teenager. At one point in their lives, everyone feels... lost. Alone. Scared. That was how I felt. I needed my parents now more than ever, but now that they were busy with the baby, I felt more lost than ever.

  And, there was one more reason why I didn't want to get attached to the baby.

   A few years ago, my mom was pregnant with her second child. She was going to have a baby girl, and name her Lisa. I was so excited, so happy, I couldn't wait for a cute little baby who I could hold and feed and play with.

  In the hospital, my mother delivered baby Lisa, almost 5 months early. The worst thing imaginable happened to her, and to us.

  We lost baby Lisa. We lost her. She was... gone.

  My heart broke into a million pieces in that moment. It broke even further after the funeral service, where we let hundreds of pink balloons go in her honor, for the life Lisa never got to live. My parents let go of their strings reluctantly, slow, soft tears streaming down their faces. But I? I wouldn't let go. I couldn't.

  No one could wrench the string out of my stubby fingers. I screamed and cried and threw a fit, until finally my fingers loosened their grip on the life I had to let go, and the balloon flew up into the air, traveling farther and farther, faster and faster, until it was a tiny pink speck, then disappeared. The one life that should have been lived. The one life that should have lived, but didn't get to.

  I didn't want to get close to the new baby, because, well, I was afraid. Afraid to lose her, too.

  After 8 hours of labor, a new baby was born. This one was... here. Happy. Healthy. My mom named her Elizabeth Jade, almost like the Lisa we lost. Almost, but not quite. Because a part of us inside still didn't want to let go of that pink balloon; to watch it disappear into the sky where the stars chose our fate, where the path to love was not easily taken. Not without pain or hard trials or days where we lost the things closest to our hearts. To the long moments of peaceful hurt and the even longer years trailing back into forever.

  My mother asked me if I wanted to hold her. I nodded and gingerly picked her up. I smiled at her tentatively... and she laughed. She laughed. I gave her one of my fingers. Her tiny hands closed over it, and I suddenly felt the warmth of a new life. The miracle of a newborn child who had been through everything to get to me. My heart, heavily guarded, like a fortress of ice and despair, melted.

  I began to cry, holding my baby sister, real and alive, and I knew I was found. I wasn't lost anymore. I was going to hold onto baby Elizabeth Jade tightly. Never let her go. I would never lose her.

  I knew we were going to fight eventually, like all sisters do. But I didn't care, because the gift of a new life was worth more than any amount of hurt or hate chained to my chest. I loved baby Elizabeth Jade, the one who gave me hope when all hope was lost.

  My light. My joy. My heart. My sister.

  Forever.