My sister was born in 198- wait, it doesn’t matter.

Which means she is technically aging.
But spiritually frozen somewhere between a CD binder and a Backstreet Boys tour tee.

We will not be discussing numbers.
We will not be acknowledging candles.
She exists. Aggressively well.

She was there for every single one of my kids being born.

Every labour.
Every delivery.
Every moment where things got real very fast.

When the twins were born, she was my support person.
Which means she watched me do something both miraculous and deeply unhinged.
Then she became the first person, after me, to hold them.

Ryan came out batting his eyelashes like he already knew his power.
He got that from me.

Briar came out screaming like she had been inconvenienced by the entire experience.
That one is hers.

The twins, for the record, get away with murder with her.
Absolute immunity.
She gives them McDonald’s when I’m not looking.
I pretend not to notice.
This is how peace is maintained.

With Jaidyn, she brings out a side that only an auntie can.

Quieter.
Steadier.
Less rules.
More understanding.

The kind of relationship that doesn’t need explaining.
It just exists.

Kristian and Greyson?

She will wrestle them without hesitation.
Fully commits.
No fear.
No concern for personal safety.

She has no issue dragging them out of their beds by their feet when they’re being impossible.
Which is often.

They listen to her.
I do not ask questions.

When other people stepped out of my kids’ lives, she stepped in.

Dance classes.
Gymnastics.
Hockey practices.

She became the constant.
The backup plan.
The one I relied on most.

She also gives hockey advice like she’s personally invested in league outcomes.
I still ask what icing is.
She still answers.
Patiently.
Every time.

She shows up for Ben too.

As many games as she can.
Even if she gets lost.
Even if she’s late.
Never without snacks.

She showed up when I was struggling to show up.

When I only had ten percent, she gave the other ninety.
Quietly.
Without keeping score.
Without making it weird.

You don’t forget that.

We didn’t always get along.

Our childhood was pure banter.
Competition.
Me trying to be louder and tougher because I always knew she was the smarter one.

The one who would pull it together first.
Even though she was younger.

And she did.

She always does.

She went to New Zealand for a year.

Joyfully.
Boldly.
Exactly the way she should have.

She built a life.
She explored.
She lived.

We were proud the whole time.

Chris and I adore her.

Truly.

She and Chris share the same sense of humour. Which means they bonded immediately.

Sarcasm.
Deadpan commentary.
Relentless The Office references.

If Michael Scott had a quote for it, one of them will find it.
If not, they’ll make one worse on purpose.

And then there’s us.

The concerts.
The commitment.
The delusion.

Backstreet Boys concerts were not casual events.

Outfits planned.
Voices blown.
Absolute certainty that Nick Carter would notice me specifically.

She supported this fully.
She always understood.
I marry Nick.
She marries Aaron.
We had roles.

She was there for my first two Nick encounters. (ohhh boy)

The time I insisted it wasn’t Nick.
Threw my purse into a sea of women.
It was Nick.

She will never let me forget this.

Or the time we bought backstage passes for the first time.
I tripped.
Basically fell into him.
Threw my arms around him.
Declared “I loooooove you” in what we now call my Man Voice.

Then we hired a random man to carry us back to the car.
Like a horse.
But without the horse.

We’ve been through it.

And today is her birthday.
Which felt overdue for credit where credit is very, very due.

To the best auntie.
The constant.
The one who stayed.

And because this part is just for her:

“As long as there’ll be music, we’ll be coming back again.” 💿