When we were young, my sister and I were separated. Due to our parents' personal circumstances, I was placed in foster care while she continued to live with them. We were three years apart; whenever I saw her, I took on a protective, caring role.
I remember a photograph of us sitting together in an oversized brown leather chair. I grinned as I held my little sister tight, her head slightly turned away from the camera. She had huge, deep brown eyes and bows in her hair.
We played together whenever we saw each other, running from room to room and giggling under my foster parents’ huge maple-wood dining table. After my adoption became final when I was 6, she disappeared, staying with my biological parents, whom I barely knew. I was left alone, and I kept searching for her.
I missed the little girl in the photograph. I asked my adoptive mother, “Mommy, where is she? When is she coming back?”
...
“She is not allowed to visit anymore,” she said, lowering her eyes before returning to scrubbing the pan in front of her.
I looked for her in other ways. I checked yearbooks, hoping I might find her in another grade or class. But closed adoption records meant I had no way to find out where she was. Over the years, I typed her name into Google repeatedly, even after I moved across the country, away from our California hometown. After decades of my searches yielding no results, one day I found her contact information online. I leaned over my laptop and spelled her name aloud to make sure I had the right person. I was thrilled that we could finally become sisters again, but I also feared what I might find. My hands quivered as I copied and pasted an email address. I worried that she might not want to know me.
I wrote: “My name is Leslie,” and I gave my biological mother’s last name. “I think you are my sister,” I continued.
Thirty minutes later, she replied. I was relieved, but fear hit immediately: She might not want me in her life. But after speaking, I was reassured, and she seemed excited to meet me.
A few weeks later I flew out to meet her. During the six-hour flight, I was too nervous to eat. I imagined she might understand me in a way no one else could, and I hoped finding her would ease the deep loneliness I had felt for so long.
When I arrived at the airport, I waited outside for her. Then my phone buzzed with a text: “I’m here.”
I scanned the arriving cars until I saw hers. I slid into the passenger seat, squishing my small backpack at my feet.
“I made it,” I blurted.
I was too frightened and shy to look at her. When I finally turned toward her, I recognized the little girl I remembered. She did not meet my gaze. She put her hand on the stick shift and asked, “Did you have a good flight?”
...
As we drove to her apartment, we made small talk and avoided mentioning our biological parents.
I asked, “Where did you grow up?”
“Not too far from you,” she said.
She had been raised only a few miles away from where I lived with my adoptive family, but she had attended school outside the local district. That explained why I had never found her in the yearbooks I’d searched.
Later, I asked, “Did you ever go to the beach?”
“Of course we did.”
I told her about my favorite beach that I would go to as a child.
She paused, with a shocked expression on her face.
“I think I used to see you there, with your new parents.”
I raised my eyebrow.
It felt eerie that we’d lived in such close proximity but our paths never crossed. We’d shared the same public spaces, but lived completely separate lives. Sitting together in her apartment, I felt my hope for an unbreakable sisterly bond fade. I pulled back, unsure whether I was chasing the little sister I remembered or the grown woman in front of me.
I could tell she was disappointed in my life. Our attempts to connect fell short, and I was left unsure of what kind of relationship we could build.
We seemed to come from different planets, and differed on everything from our worldview to our taste in movies. She favored stability, while I was an artist who made films, produced theater and traveled the world solo.
She asked me, “Why did you move so far away to New York?”
“I had a Broadway internship.”
She nodded.
I don’t think she understood what Broadway meant to me, but I didn’t explain it.
While she sat there, I looked at her and wondered: Do I even want to know this person? We had so little in common, and the pit in my stomach reminded me of my lifelong struggle to fit in. I wanted connection, but I also wanted to run when it felt out of reach.
But this time I didn’t want to give up so easily. I left the next day, returned to New York, and we didn’t speak for almost a year.
Still, I hoped we might try again because I recognized her as family.
Then, one spring afternoon 12 years after our initial meeting, her name popped up on my phone. I felt nervous, but also relieved. Our relationship had been somewhat sporadic. She told me she was coming to New York and wanted to see me. Could I show her around?
“Awesome, of course,” I said. I was glad for another chance and hoped we could start over.
We met outside her hotel and stood admiring Times Square's dazzling lights. I love showing visitors my favorite places in the city, so I took her to the West Village.
She didn’t like it. I love old buildings and historic neighborhoods. She preferred sparkly, new modern developments, so we went to Hudson Yards, a place I normally wouldn’t go.
Outside, we milled about and found a restaurant we both agreed on, and enjoyed our meal together.
Something changed during that visit. I stopped trying to find the sister I remembered and began getting to know her as she was. Painful as it was to admit, she was essentially a stranger, and accepting that made room for us to grow closer.
Although our relationship required effort, we became less judgmental and began sharing what we loved. Over time, our relationship grew through commitment and stood on its own despite the gap in our histories. The bond became real because we kept showing up for each other.
Later, when we were together, she proudly introduced me to someone as her sister.
The person looked at us both, as we smiled.
Now, we enjoy the most ordinary things together. We both have an affinity for cute but uncomfortable shoes and a weakness for Cuban food.
Those pleasures haven't come easily. For years, I searched for the little girl in my photograph. To build a relationship with the woman I found, I had to let go of the idea that we would automatically know how to be sisters. We first had to become friends.
Leslie Vooris is a writer, filmmaker and children’s advocate in New York City.
All views expressed in this article are the author's own.
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