Before she was Sarah Schmidt, she was Sarah Dietrich.

She once tried to run away from home, I convinced her to stay, by promising that things would get better.

I taught her to cook bacon when she was only five. And she did, every morning.

As a toddler on a farm, it was lonely, she had no friends, except for the feral cats – and me.

Late one night, she awoke screaming at the top of her lungs, I drove her to the hospital, she had an appendectomy, and I slept in the hospital chair beside her.

We watched SpongeBob SquarePants every night.

When she was older, she worked at Chick-fil-a, it was right behind the condo where I lived. I ate free sometimes.

After she got her license, I let her have my old car. She wrecked it. Thank God she was okay.

She once got so drunk she had to stay the night in my camper, I made her breakfast the next morning. She’d kill me for telling you that – or unfriend me.

She had crushes on all of my friends when I was a young man.

I gave her away when she got married.

She still gets hopping mad at me from time to time, because I’m a clown.

We don’t text much, or talk on the phone. She’s pretty busy with work. She’s an adult now.

But she looks good, and I love her.

She’s my sister.