My (adopted) sister doesn’t like ketchup

My sister was born eight years after me. I don’t know if I resented her for interrupting my only child status or what, but for some reason, almost from the moment she was brought home from the hospital until now, I constantly have teased her.

“Do you want ketchup with that?” I’ll ask her even though I know she hates — always has– ketchup. Aside: What true-blooded American hates ketchup? Mustard, sure, I can see that, but ketchup is the fake lifeblood of our nation. Think of all the B-movies that wouldn’t have been made if it hadn’t been for ketchup. Plus it has natural mellowing agents.

Lisa and me

This photo was taken when she was about 18 months, I’m guessing, and I was 9, and might be the genesis of the cruelest jokes I ever “played” on her for the next…oh…10 to 15 years.

“Look in the mirror? Do you look like either Mom or Dad? You have red hair. Mom has black hair; Dad, brown hair. I think you were adopted.”

According to my sister, I told her this well through her grade school years and possibly even into high school. To be honest, and I don’t mean to feign innocence here (but I’m going to do it anyway), but I don’t remember that.

One other time, and I believe I can say this now because the statute of limitations has run out and I won’t get prosecuted for assault, I punched her in the stomach. I don’t recall why. All I know is that most likely she deserved it.

I never realized how cruel I was being until one night I heard heard saying my name in her sleep. I went to the door of her room to see what she wanted.

“Yes, Lisa?”

“I hate you,” then she said my name. She said it a few more times.

“Well, I…” I stammered.

Only after a few minutes did I realize she was talking in her sleep. To this day, she feels bad about saying it and swears she loves me, but I still don’t know.

Of course, that’s all right. She’s not really my sister, after all. What should I care? She was adopted. She must have been. After all, she’s the only one in our family that doesn’t like ketchup on her fries.

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My adopted sister also has has her own blog, on which she’ll probably tell you a different story later today. Don’t believe her. Real members of our family only speak the truth.

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