Growing up in Brooklyn and Manhattan, I always knew I had three half-siblings from my father’s second marriage living just a few miles away from me in Queens.
They had American first names with Persian middle names, while I got the Persian first name and the American middle name. I knew we legally shared a very ethnically diverse last name, so I started going by my mother’s maiden name, Evans, by the time I was in pre-kindergarten to stop people from teasing me.
I was a lonely child who yearned for siblings or friends with whom to play daily. To get to school, I commuted from the Upper East Side down and over about 22 city blocks on two different buses, and my classmates were scattered throughout the city.
My mother liked to work hard and play harder. Based on her social calendar, she was out the door before me in the mornings and often not home until the wee hours of the morning.
When I thought of what my younger siblings must be doing or what they would look like, I was often filled with jealousy for these people I had never met. I pictured them having family dinners, playing together, having a home filled with love, and being tucked into warm beds each night, a story in their mom or our dad’s hand.
I often wondered if we would know each other if we passed on the street. Would we have the same features? Maybe the same eyes?
In 2010, I decided to look for them on Facebook. Our unique last name made it a pretty quick search. I remember looking first for my brother, who was born after me. I looked at his photo, specifically his eyes, and you could tell. I reached out to him first, unsure if they knew of me, regardless of my romanticizing the years we missed out on together.
I was 26 at the time, making him around 22, and my other siblings would’ve still been minors, so I wanted to be sensitive. He responded with open arms, and before I knew it, I was having lunch in New Rochelle with two of my three siblings, my father, their mother, and my niece and nephew. I hadn’t seen my father since I was four or five years old.
My timing of reaching out and meeting them was crazy. I was four months away from getting married, and my life was chaotic. Looking back, this was when my relationship with my mother started to unravel quickly, so it makes sense that I was seeking something more from that family of origin perspective.
It immediately caused some conflict as my mother was adamant I didn’t invite any of them to my wedding, and I obliged. However, she attended my wedding as an inconvenienced guest (a story for another day). I truly regret not pushing back and managing to have my siblings attend. I don’t know that I’ve ever outright apologized for what that must have been like for them, but I am sorry for any hurt I caused.
My sister turned out to be my doppelganger and one of my best friends. We have the same eyes, thick hair, crooked mouth, and warped sense of humor. She has been a safe place for me in every moment of my life since we met. She has been the aunt to my children, and they’ve needed her in a family where breaking cycles sometimes looks like cutting people out.
She is calm, consistent, and loving. She tells me what I need to hear, like how loved I am or how good of a mother I am, and what I need to but don’t want to hear, like when I go to her for advice and need gentle redirection.