Eleven years ago tonight, around midnight, my one sister died. In her thirties, happily married and the mother of a seven years old daughter, she’d battled breast cancer for years. She’d looked into international adoption at one time, but then had to spend all her energy on maintaining her health.

She was both my biggest supporter and my biggest critic; I suppose everyone needs one of them in their life. I’ve missed her ever since, but I’ve been blessed by getting to spend time with my niece, several times each year although she lives 600 miles away.

One big discussion we’d had involved my sister’s fears that I wouldn’t have time for her as my family grew. Because she lived so far away, I felt that our time together would not be affected all that much, we always spent two weeks together with our children at the beach every June.

I also felt so called to adopt. I could not imagine telling some kids, “Nah, I don’t want to adopt you because it’ll get in the way of seeing my sister.”

So my sister stood behind me, she was super to my children, not always understanding, but certainly generous and always there for me. What I hate is that so many of my children did not get a chance to meet her. Fortunately my brother-in-law and their daughter stayed very close to our family, my niece looks just like my sister did as a teenager.

I’m always looking for the bright side in a situation, losing my sister made me more determined to try and keep siblings together. Often I get so irked at my daughters, squabbling with each other, being hateful. I so wish I had a sister to still fight with, to argue on the phone with and to still be in our lives.

One of my older daughters is here today, remembering how she heard me crying when I got the news back then that wasn’t surprising, but dreaded. I drove 600 miles north, through my tears; and my children made me so proud that week, no acting out, no stealing or giving someone a black eye. They were perfectly behaved at the funeral home and at the funeral; alarmed at seeing me so devastated yet not a one escalated negative behaviors even one iota.

What they needed to see was for me to deal with my grief and to go on, for our family not to fold, nor for their circumstances to change. In foster care, problems always seemed to translate into moves; one of their greatest fears.

We drove back to Georgia after the funeral, I was subdued for awhile, that was off-putting enough for my children, but 10 days later my first grandson was born and I lost myself in raising him. Often grief therapy involves giving of oneself to others; something I try and teach my children.