It was just my sister, my boyfriend and me at the tapas bar. Over Spanish food and mojitos, we were laughing and drinking. Like any night I can liberate her from small, crying children, I considered it a success. Then my boyfriend rose to head to the restroom and my sister lurched her head across the table. “I’ll make this quick,” she said her voice lowered. “I have to tell you something.” She then divulged a suburban marital drama and asked me for advice. My poor boyfriend was exiled to the bar for privacy and then deposited at home by himself. The sisters had things to discuss.
I’ve long considered my older sisters to be my closest confidantes. Heck, the three of them practically raised me. When your family is as screwed-up as mine, that’s what happens. But that night at the tapas bar was the first time I didn’t just feel like the little sister, but the friend too. Keep reading »
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