A Missing Piece

When I was a young child, I was precocious, and wanted responsibility.

So I did what any other little kid would: ask.

I asked to stay home alone. I asked to get an allowance raise to $20 a month (God what I would do to get that back). I asked to be allowed to cook. I wanted to make my own decisions regarding church attendance, bed-time, and the amount and content of television I watched. And I was, of course, rejected for most of it. But I got emotional responsibility.

The bulk of it happened at age 10, when my parents divorced and I had choose a parent. But even before that, I had it, and never realized exactly how much disclosure I received in my early years – until now, that is.

My parents, like most others these days, had relationships before they met each other. My mom was married four times before she ever met my father, and both had two kids to bring into the equation, before I was born.

My dad was raised Catholic, and sometime in his 20s or 30s, he met a nice Jewish woman, whose name has escaped me to this day. They married, had two children, and subsequently divorced (My dad has done some rather nasty things in his life; what he did is easy to guess, but leads to much ranting if I state it).

In 1996, I was in first grade, and I was given an assignment. The objective was to teach us the word “sibling.” The result was a harsh truth suddenly surfacing.

“What did you learn at school today?”

“That I have two siblings.”

My mom paused at that point. Perhaps to figure out what word I was mispronouncing, or perhaps because she knew what was about to happen.

“You have four siblings, honey.”

I paused at this point, because Mom was apparently an idiot.

“No! Laura and Tricia! One and one! Two!”

She sighed. It was time.

“Laura and Tricia are your half-sisters. They’re my children, but not your dad’s. Your dad has two other children, too, but they’re not mine.”

“So the others are half-sisters too?”

“One half-brother, one half-sister.”

“So I still have two siblings, because they’re all halves.”

My mother giggled, which officially ended the conversation. For then.

In an unknown month of fall, in an unknown year, we flew to Massachusetts. We were at a baseball game, I think, and my parents had a conversation with some guy named Jason. I was reading a Goosebumps book for most of that day. Later, I learned That One Guy was my older brother.

We have not spoken since. I don’t even remember what he looks like.

As for my half-sister, I’ve never spoken to or met her. I’m not even sure where she lives.

I’ve tried many times over the last few years to make contact. I’ve tried countless people search websites. I’ve found – and called – a few phone numbers. My most recent endeavor in this has been calling phone numbers in Arlington, Virginia. One was an assisted living facility. One was for a block captain, who said she had never heard of my sister, and even looked through a directory to no avail.

My dad sent me a picture of her and her boyfriend (at the time?). She’s one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever seen, and I’m personally jealous she got the good features, while I’m stuck with Dad’s nose. He said he would give me her phone number, if she says it’s okay next time he talks to her, which I’m guessing will be around 2015, if he calls her as frequently as he calls me. It’s been a year and a half, now, so I’m tired of waiting.

In March 2008, I attempted to connect with her through LinkedIn. Between then and today, she accepted, which gave me an email address with IBM.

I sent an email tonight, about three hours ago. It wasn’t returned by a daemon, which gives me hope, though I’ve attempted to send messages through websites and old or guessed email accounts in vain in the past.

Sis, if you’re out there, somewhere, reading this, I want you to know I’m trying. I really, really am. I don’t have a lot of hope at this point that I will ever get to meet you. I don’t even think you would want a relationship with me, since you already have a brother, and I’m not exactly the best family member. If that’s true, though, I hope you’ll at least tell me that, so I can stop searching, and have some kind of closure. Maybe the hole will be filled just knowing that you’re happy. But I think truly knowing you and Jason would be a much better fit.