When there was no internet, my story was short: I was adopted as an infant and I am my parents’ daughter. Period.

When information was made available to us, and files made mine, my story grew longer: I have siblings and half-siblings. Having grown up as an only child, this made my heart swell with possibility. I pondered the ripples this search would have on my life: How would my parents handle this? How would I feel if I unraveled something unsavoury? I wrote a letter unsent. I finally opened up to my parents and they encouraged my journey, cautiously protecting my heart in case things didn’t work out the way I had painted them in my head. But really, possibilities were vague and felt more like fiction than a reality I could hope for.

And then: A name, an email, information. A new path, new prospects, regained hope.

For ten years I have blogged about my most personal thoughts, feelings, experiences and opinions and I suddenly feel so mute. Suddenly this is all so real.

I have a sister.

I tried to fortify myself and be realistic. I told myself that blood does not a sister make. My family is my family, nurture is greater than nature, and life doesn’t change just because someone shares some genetic code.

But I have a sister.

I sat across from her and drank up her stories, stared into familiar eyes. I fell in love with all the potential this relationship has, and cannot absorb enough of her. I have stories, genetics, history beyond my own.

I have a sister.

Suddenly this story is not my own, not mine alone to share.