Mary from the Prairie

I was recently challenged to "write 350 words about a sibling."  Here is my answer to the challenge, coming in at exactly 350 words of fictional siblingdom.  (Sorry chick, no kind words about you today.  And none for the brother unit either).

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“What can I prepare for you today?”

The barrista looked familiar, uncannily so.  Her voice too.  She looked at me just as intently.  We must have been staring at each other; a voice behind me grumped, “Lady, hurry up and order.  You’re not the only one in line, you know.”

“Um, I’ll have a vanilla latte.  Large.”  She rang up my order and I stepped aside to the pick-up counter.  I continued to watch, and she glanced at  me as she went on with her duties.  Could she?  Naahh …  Here?  

My drink was ready, and I decided to stick around a bit.  Today’s staff meeting would have to start without me.

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Four years old is too young to lose your family.  My mother and Dad split up when I was very young.  Life as a mistress to a Wall Street day-trader pulled at her heart more than her own two children.  Daddy’s heart was so shattered that he could not cope with one daughter in first grade and me so wide-eyed in the world.  He left the city with my sister Rachel.  She was 6 at the time.  I was left to live with my Robert, my Daddy’s brother.  I found my maternal parent unit a while back on Facebook, but could not bring myself to contact her.  Turns out, she has a second family of her own.  It would be many years before I could use the word “forgive” as something I would do for either parent.   But not a day has gone by since the day four-year-old me cried endlessly over my world being torn apart.

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Could my world change over a vanilla latte?  Butterflies in my stomach described the beautiful hope, but the rushing in my stomach was much more intense.

I studied her every move.  I know I recognize her!  Does she know me?  Remember me?  Would she accept me?

Finally, a break in the activity.  Rag in hand to wipe the tables, she works her way in my direction.  And the recognition slams me.  She’s my half-sister, my mother’s daughter.

Can I accept her?

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