We told them

 

I remember the day you found the letter.

The name your mother gave you written like a myth.

We didn’t speak for a week.

You were scared of choosing blood over bond.

But I followed you to the bus station anyway.

Carried the bag you didn’t pack properly.

And watched as your real siblings cried over a brother they'd never deserved.

You came back six days later; angry, hollow-eyed, ashamed.

“I’m not your sister” you whispered.

And I said, “Then what are you?”

You looked at me like a secret you couldn't keep.

Then kissed me like the stars had always known we weren’t made from the same dust.

So we told them.

The laughter. The touch. The late night stories. To us we weren't siblings.

It was survival... that turned into something sacred.

Now when they ask.

We say nothing.

We just hold hands.

And let them wonder how family is formed.

© amimoh_ombogo