A Sister I Didn’t Ask for but Will Never Forget

She only ever wanted a mommy.

My foster sister, Cynthia, in 1971

Hello, old friends, and a warm welcome to new subscribers:) So happy to have all of you along. I am writing a memoir and sharing one of its stories. This personal essay isn’t necessarily enjoyable, but it is what happened as I remember it. The memory of my foster sister is still with me, and last summer, I wrote a poem with her in it called “Ode to Imperfect Mothers.” 

(PS: There are a couple of loose ends regarding our Kamala signs at the bottom of this week’s post if you are interested.)

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Trigger Warning: Today’s newsletter discusses child abuse.

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A stranger called my mother "Mommy," and my world tilted. Had she made a mistake? She said "Mommy" so matter-of-factly, as if she already belonged to her. Was she somehow related to us?

I was seven years old and aware that my parents kept secrets. Did they get me a new sister as a surprise? No one had hinted that I was getting a puppy until I saw the cardboard carrier in our living room. Could this be the same kind of surprise?

I had always wanted a sister, especially one so sure of herself, but I didn't know you could get one without Mommy having a big belly first.

A lady sat with us, too. Was she the girl's real mommy?

"How old are you, Cynthia?" my mother chirped sweetly.

Cynthia?

My mom had named our new puppy Cindy, so I wondered how they could both have almost the same name. Was this another of her mispronunciations? My mother's thick German accent made words sound funny. A while ago, I noticed how oddly my parents spoke, which embarrassed me. Would Cynthia care that her "Mommy" talked funny?

"Six years old!" Cynthia announced, wiggling six fingers in the air.

A girl named Cynthia and a dog named Cindy. I turned this over in my mind. Was this synchronicity a sign for my parents to knit us together? But the girl didn't look like she belonged to us, and I considered our unlikely pairing. Her black bangs were a shock against her see-through skin. Cynthia had a soft, pear-shaped body, the opposite of my own. We looked no more like siblings than my Jewish best friend and I did.

I always wanted a sister, but this one scared me. Violence had been etched into her skin. A small scar peeked out from below her hairline, and an angry trail of red bumps meandered down the side of her neck, disappearing beneath her dress collar. Seeing those marks on a child made my stomach twist, though I couldn’t fully understand why. They told a story that words never could, one of pain and survival that didn’t belong in the world of Barbies and puppies I inhabited. All the while I studied her, she never looked at me.

"Bye, Mommy!" Cynthia said, turning as the lady took her hand to leave.

My mind couldn’t make sense of Cynthia and the lady, so I played the rest of the day and forgot about the strange interruption. Later, at dinner, Dad asked if I liked Cynthia.

"No," I said. "She wasn't fun or pretty."

"What? Why? You don't really know her," my dad's voice plowed over me.

My mom's eyes widened as she spooned potatoes onto my plate. "Her parents are very mean," she said softly.

"They grabbed her by the hair and threw her down the stairs. Cynthia had to go to the hospital."

"Why did they do that?" My voice quavered at the story.

"We don't understand any of it. Cynthia's mother isn't a nice mommy. She poured boiling water on her."

"They never hurt the other three kids in the family. Just her," my dad added.

My parents kept going, describing the tsunami of horror Cynthia had endured, their words earnest and marked with a sense of urgency. I took it in silently, struggling to comprehend that parents visited such things on their children.

The marks on Cynthia's neck suddenly made sense.

I recalled getting hit one time by my father. While sitting on his lap at the kitchen table, an ashtray brimming with cigarette butts and ashes taunted me. The urge to blow into the ashtray grew into a conflagration of unstoppable breath from my pursed lips. My satisfaction was cut short by a thwack on my hand as it lay defenseless on the table. I'd cried then, but even at seven, I knew it wasn't the same.

The next day, I forgot about Cynthia, returning to the carefree world of play and school. That is, until when my parents and I drove to the Catholic Charities building in Philadelphia. Cynthia sat waiting for us with her suitcase.

"Mommy!" she said again, her face lighting up as she ran to my mother.

I stared at her, trying to process what was happening. My parents had told me they intended to bring her home to stay, but I didn't understand what having her as a family meant. She was coming home with us—just like that. I felt like I’d been dropped into the deep end.

Cynthia wasn't like the kids at school or even my neighborhood friends. She carried something heavy inside her, something I didn’t understand but could feel in how she moved—hesitant, as though each step might be her last safe one. It was in the way she avoided looking at me, her gaze always darting to my mother as if seeking permission to exist in our space. Her small shoulders sagged under an invisible weight, and when she thought no one was watching, her face would fall into a sadness that seemed too deep for a child to bear.

My parents, too, seemed lost in uncharted waters. They had no training, no foresight for what it meant to care for a child who had endured so much. How could anyone know how to help a little girl whose life had been nothing but violence and betrayal?

Cynthia went home with us that day, and none of us knew how unprepared we were to care for her. As I watched her clutch my mother’s hand, unease stirred within me. We were stepping into something far bigger than any of us could understand, and though I couldn’t articulate it then, I knew her story was a tragedy greater than we could ever have imagined. As I watched her clutch my mother’s hand, I didn’t feel anger or even jealousy—just a small, gnawing fear. I wanted to believe we could be the family she needed. But deep down, I sensed this wasn’t a story with a happy ending.

Cynthia and me on Easter 1971

Thanks for making it to the end!

Here is the update regarding the stolen Kamala signs. (If you’re new and want to catch up on our local election drama, click here.)

Honestly, I completely forgot about our stolen signs and the egging of our house. Those events seem like a lifetime ago. Our beloved dog Polly died (the best dog ever) on November 19th, which added gloom to a very shitty month. The holidays came and went, and so did my worst memories of 2024.

Yesterday, I saw a friend who had also had his signs stolen. He reported that two of the four male juvenile sign thieves came over and apologized. This prompted me to check in with another neighbor, who said she received four handwritten apologies, $180 for the cost of the signs, and a visit from one of the mothers.

I had filed police reports but never heard anything, so I called today. The police told me they couldn’t release a report because the perpetrators were underage but assured me they received a station house adjustment. That meant they received community service and/or other requirements to pay back their debt for their actions so that their records could be cleared.

I already put it behind me, but I’m happy my neighbors got a bit of satisfaction.

Me and Cindy