My 6-year-old brother, Mike and I were home watching cartoons while Mom and Dad were out shopping. I went to get some drink and left my brother in the living room. While pouring the drink, I heard something break. I rushed into the living room only to find that my brother had broken my mom’s favorite vase (花瓶). He stood frozen, repeatedly saying it was an accident.

Seeing his worried look, I didn’t want him to get into trouble, and then did what any big sister would do. I helped him fix the broken vase. I quickly ran and got some glue (胶水). Not knowing when Mom and Dad were going to be back, I had no time to waste. I carefully gathered up all the broken pieces on the floor and started to glue them together. It took me an hour to do it but I finally made it. Just when I thought it was over, then came the real disaster.

I did fix the vase. However, I had accidentally glued my hair to it! After walking to the bathroom, I was disappointed to see what used to be shiny and neat hair was now ruined. “My beautiful hair,” I cried. Realizing that there was no way to pull my hair from the vase, I grabbed a pair of scissors (剪刀). With every single hair I cut, I cried again. My hair was ruined and the vase looked as if a wig (假发) were attached to it! Although I promised my little brother that his big sister could deal with it, I had butterflies in my stomach. I placed the vase in the same place but at a different angle, hoping my mom wouldn’t discover it.

When hearing a key turn in the front door, Mike ran away, leaving me alone in the living room.

I come from a family where all our siblings separated because of some reasons. After we grew up, my three siblings and I could go years without speaking. And that is where this story begins.

My sister Jeanne and I were born only 14 months apart, but by the time we were teenagers we had lost touch. By age 19, I had moved away from our home in Wisconsin to live on my father’s horse farm in Virginia, where I worked ultimately as a veterinary assistant and a bartender. Jeanne got married at 18, moved to Chicago, and became—well, I didn’t know what. We lived separate lives in separate states, and our connection somehow ended.

Fast-forward about five years. I was 24 and on a trip with my fiance to New York City, a place I had never been. It was overwhelming. I was used to riding my horse to the corner store where everyone knew everyone and everything going on in the quiet little cowpoke town of Driver, Virginia. We had gone to New York to visit my fiance’s cousin and see the sights. We went to Little Italy, the Statue of Liberty, Chinatown, and several Manhattan clubs. I had never seen so many taxicabs in one spot in all my life.

During a day of sightseeing, we were crossing a very busy street loaded with people. Everyone was in a hurry, hustling and bustling. I had laughed at something my fiance said, and I suddenly heard my name yelled from somewhere behind me:“Cheryl!” I froze in my steps in the middle of the road. Tears welled up spontaneously in my eyes. I knew without a doubt that it was my sister Jeanne. I yelled back, “Jeanne?”