I recently stumbled across a letter I wrote to Santa when I was six years old. Deep in a box of crumpled photos and loose negatives, my earnest correspondence to the big man requested nothing but a sibling. I wrote sister in every possible iteration: half-sister, adopted sister, stepsister, foster sister and, underneath, just in case Santa couldn’t grant that particular wish, I added the same options for brother.
If Santa somehow turned out to be real and started granting wishes to tired mums in their late 30s, my wish would probably remain the same: I’d rewrite history and add a sibling. A lovely one, preferably, but I’ll take what