My Sister and I Didn’t Speak for Decades. Could a Baby Change That?

The woman in the vegan diner mentioned her thumbs. They looked like they had been hammered flat, just like mine. I felt the rush of connection, followed by the ache of regret. This woman, my sister, was a stranger.

We had last seen each other more than 30 years ago. I was 7; she was 29. We were burying our father.

Over those many years apart, I often wondered why she had disappeared. Was a little sister so dispensable? My grief and resentment had calcified into something internal and essential, like bone. The prospect of reconciliation, which had once buoyed me, was long gone. Yet here she was, in Chicago to meet my newborn.

Alcoholism had ravaged our extended family, sparing no one. Even those who were not addicted suffered its caprice. She married an alcoholic. I became one. But, without knowing it, we began parallel journeys of recovery in 12-step meetings. She found a lens to understand the erratic behavior of relatives who were sparkly but sometimes cruel. I began to see myself and my own imperfections more clearly, and realized I didn’t need an apology to forgive her.

We are having trouble retrieving the article content.

Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.

---

Thank you for your patience while we verify access. If you are in Reader mode please exit and log into your Times account, or subscribe for all of The Times.

---

Thank you for your patience while we verify access.

Already a subscriber? Log in.

Want all of The Times? Subscribe.