Twenty-nine years ago, Mom and Daddy woke me and my brother up in the middle of the night, so they could drop us off at a friends’ home. I didn’t realize it then, but Mom was in labour, and they still had to drive an hour and a half to get to the hospital. When they got there, Olivia was just about ready to make her appearance, and there was a fire on the floor below the maternity ward. She made it into this world, safe, sound and screaming.

Two days later, Daddy brought us to the top floor of the building next to the hospital, and Nick, my brother, spelled out “She’s pretty” with stones so Mom could see from her window. And Olivia was and she still is, heart and soul and inside and out.

We’re six and a half years and several hundred miles apart, and we’ve had our personal ups and downs, but we are connected by a bond that is too strong for anything as trivial as those things. She’s my sister, my soul-friend and she understands me like no other.

I love you, Olivia. I can’t wait to see you.

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