I remember the night before he was born, sitting cross-legged in the living room drawing while mom laid in the recliner and dad stretched out on the couch.

“Can I write the baby a letter, mom?” I asked, popping up from whatever my crayons had been doodling.

“Sure,” she replied, touching her belly and smiling.

A minute later, I was back on the living room floor, this time with a pencil, a lined sheet of paper from my school notebook, and my bright little idea. I began to write:

Dear Baby,

I am going to be your sister. I am seven and I am in secend grade. I can’t wate till you are born. We are going to share rooms. I can’t wate to see what you are. I have a nice room. I have lots of baby stuff. You get to have my blankies. I have a new Preemie and a Cabbage Patch Kid. But I have lots of stuff you can’t have.

Love,

Your Big Sister

To girl or boy with love

January 1, 1986

The next morning I found myself awakened by the hallway light at 5 a.m. Mom walked several times from her bedroom to the living room and back again, her hair done, make-up on, an expectant smile on her face. Then dad knelt next to my bed, telling me he and mom were going to the hospital to have the baby, and Grandma June and Grandpa Arlie would bring me over in a little bit.

Then, before I knew it, the wait was over, the anticipated little peanut slept bundled up in a blue blanket, blue beanie on his head, just on the other side of a hospital window. And I was the big sister.

On that cold January day I could have never imagined the man he would become and how proud I’d be to call him brother. Whatever other titles I take on in this life, there are few more precious to me, more treasured, than Brad’s big sister.

Love you so much, Brad. Happy 22.

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