TO apply to university in the United States, high school students usually have to write personal essays. My big sister wrote about our parents divorcing when she was eight and I was five. She described their joint custody arrangement – how we spent half our time at our mom’s and half at our dad’s. She wrote that since each of our parents only partook in and witnessed half of our upbringing, I was the one with whom she shared her life in its entirety. “My sister is my home,” she wrote.

To me, my sister was my home, my role model, my confidant, my hero, my annoyance, my problem solver and my shield from Mom and Dad’s angry fights.

Growing up, I had lots of family members trying to raise me, the baby who needed protection from the Divorce. My mom and dad, their spouses, each set of grandparents – everyone thought they’d pitch in.

My family did a fine job. I personally don’t think I turned out all that bad.

But really, the one who raised me was my sister. She was my parent.

She taught me how to swing on the swings, how to tie my hair in braids after Dad’s attempt left me lopsided and frizzy.

When Mom didn’t know how to fix my computer, my sister did it for me.

My sister has always been a stellar student – now at a top law school – and advised me on which honours classes to take in middle school, which advanced placements in high school. And when I came home devastated because I had done poorly on a spelling test, she pulled out her binder to show me quiz after quiz that she had failed.

I grew up thinking that we were similar because I wanted to be just like her. (When I was 14 she told me that we had completely opposite talents and hobbies – I was crushed.)

But she was right, as I always thought she was. She starred in all the school musicals, and I can’t carry a tune.

My sister is a phenomenal dancer, and I – well – I’m not. But she allowed me to pretend that it was just because she was older and more experienced. At family weddings and Bar Mitzvah parties she’d grab my hands, pull me out on the dance floor and then show me what to do. I never got the hang of it, but she didn’t mind leading.

When Mom did not have a clue what it was like to live under the rules of my step-mom Susan, my sister was there to listen to me complain.

She was the only one who understood.

We wanted it that way. Somewhere along the line we learned that Divorce means “Don’t talk about Mom’s house while at Dad’s; don’t talk about Dad’s house at Mom’s – if you do, it will start a fight.”

My sister knew exactly what we were allowed to discuss, and when I would almost slip out of line she’d kick me under the kitchen table to shut me up.

I often hid my problems from my parents because I wanted to protect them. My sister, though, knew everything. And she was always there to say the right thing.

Then she went off to live at university, and life inevitably changed. When I was upset I’d immediately call her, but she was often out and her roommates had to take messages.

Then I went off to university, and I inevitably changed. Kicking and screaming, I became an ‘adult’. When the playmate and mentor and shield is no longer around, you have to make decisions on your own.

Though for the important ones, I still called her first. And I always, always listened to her advice. She knew best.

Until the decision to move to Myanmar came up. She was horrified; I thought it was the opportunity of a lifetime. We fought for days, sending emails back and forth, each one more judgmental and nasty than the previous.

Obviously, I broke precedent and did not listen to her advice.

My sister is coming to visit me in one week, and I have no idea what to expect.
It will be the first time that we’ve spent a significant amount of time together, just the two of us, in years.

She’s probably not that different. Still a fabulous dancer, an excellent student. At age eight she became a parent, so she’s always been a mature, confident, decision-making adult.

I’m the one who has changed. I’ve grown up, or at least I’d like to believe I have.

The question is whether we will resume our roles as parent-child and she’ll take care of me but be too condescending, and I’ll whine and get moody and take out my problems on her.

Or, we will re-establish our relationship. We’ll become equals, sisters, the closest of friends.

I have no idea what will happen. I do know that I’m so excited I feel like skipping around the playground.