The first time my daughter asked what “half-sister” meant, she was holding baby Moo.
“Is it because she’s tiny? Like… half a person?”
My heart sank. She adored that baby—talked to my belly, skipped a party to meet her, gave her the nickname “Moo.” No label could lessen that bond.
I told her gently, “She’s your sister. All the way.” Days later, I overheard her whisper, “You’re not my half-sister, Moo. You’re my sister.”
Still, I spoke up to relatives: “Please don’t say ‘half.’ Words matter.” Some pushed back—until one cousin later called, apologizing. Her own child had asked the same painful question.
That’s when it hit me: love doesn’t need labels. There’s no “half” in sisterhood—or in family.
