I’m back with a new bottle of champagne that just came into the local wine and cheese shop and a palm reading, because what else would I be doing on a Saturday after my quiet, younger sister opened up to me about our childhood.

I won’t tell you what she said because sisterhood. Duh. But I will say is that I haven't stopped thinking about it since.

Which is where the bottle of Spumante Brut came into the picture. Cherry undertones, by the way. So good.

I poured myself a glass, turned on my audiobook of Margaret Atwood’s A Memoir of Sorts, and got to chopping apples for my dessert burek, which will probably be my primary food group for the next three days. If you know, you know.

Now I really get off on some Margaret Atwood literature, okay? I subscribed to a year of MasterClass primarily to watch her class videos. I found a hand-signed copy of her memoir during my last trip to Boston (what a dream). I then stuffed that huge, heavy book into my carry-on and lugged it all the way back home along with the other two books I had brought to cover the five-day trip.

My dear, sweet best friend, Mytien, offered to put it in her carry-on, but I wouldn’t put her through that. She already had the middle seat for the flight back. That was surely torture enough.

So now I go back and forth between audiobooks, e-books, and physical copies depending on what I’m doing. It really is a disease. I may not smoke cigarettes anymore, not because I'm trying to be healthy, but because my book addiction takes up enough of my paycheck.

Good thing my mother doesn’t read these. She would not want to hear that I’m currently craving a Vogue Slim or a Marlboro Gold.

But honestly, they can’t be worse for me than the stress of being alive in 2026.

Cigarettes. Stress. *Weighing the options in my two hands.* I don’t know. I’m thinking the cigarette wins.

Anyway. I’ve finished chopping my apples. They’re boiling in spices and butter on the stove, and I’m sitting with a refilled flute, eyes closed, listening to my dear Margaret Atwood recite her life story when she casually mentions that she can read palms.

My eyelids shoot open.

I run downstairs to the many boxes of old belongings I’ve been meaning to donate to the thrift and fumble through them until I find my palmistry cards that I almost gave away in one of my freakshow decluttering moods. Thank goodness I procrastinated on bringing those boxes to my car. I have lost many beloved possessions doing that.

Hold on. I need to stir my apples and pour a refill.

I wish I could push the smell of my kitchen through the screen and into wherever you are, because it is amazing. That or I’m just tipsy and a little too in love with everything around me.

My poor antisocial cats will be getting an unusual amount of cuddles if I finish this bottle. Pray for them.

Moving on, because I’m reading my thumb structure. Okay… that checks out. Interesting.

I’m reading my first couple hand lines. I’m not really sure I can see half of the ones the cards are telling me to locate, but whatever. I’m into it.

Now here is where my previously sad, eldest-daughter, big-sister self gets a shock.

My fingerprints. I have only… hold on let me find the card… Right. Okay.

I have only “Comet” fingerprints, which means my life path is the heart.

I read the description. I fill up my glass again. And then I pull out my laptop because something clicks.

In case it wasn’t clear, I am the eldest daughter of a dysfunctional family. Sorry to my family if you’re reading this, since we’re all rather private (wonder why lol).

I was an only child until the age of nine, and within fifteen months I suddenly had three younger siblings. Yes, folks, you heard that right. Three in fifteen months. Two little babies of my mom's, a brother and a sister. And one sister on my dad’s side who I met when she was four and evil.

I would argue she is still a little evil, but now we are evil together. I would do absolutely anything for her. This is also the sister I was referring to at the beginning of this essay.

We share no parents, but we share a childhood. Somehow the experiences we had together and the experiences we went through alone but side-by-side created a sisterhood thicker than any blood relation would or could ever be.

She once gifted me a mason jar filled with different colored sticky notes that represented moments throughout our relationship that had left an impact on her or made her happy. This is one of my most prized possessions. It sits in a place of honor on my bookshelf. It keeps me going in hard times.

There’s a movie that came out just this last year called Sentimental Value. It’s described as a “drama/tragicomedy,” which is another way to describe my life. Or my personality. Or honestly both. It’s okay. You can laugh. I do!

There’s a scene in the film where the eldest sister looks at her younger sister and asks something like, “Why didn’t our childhood ruin you?” And the younger sister answers, “The difference is that I had you.”

I can’t help but wonder what it would have been like to have an older sister of my own. A protector. Someone to turn scary nights into sleepovers. Someone to put a stop to things before they went too far.

I’ve noticed something about myself over the years. The most successful relationships in my life have been with other eldest daughters or sons. Actually, cut that part about eldest sons. I’m not much of a male-relationships type of gal. Kidding. Mostly.

I have a couple male friends I don’t hate. But unfortunately I cannot help rolling my eyes at some of the things men I’ve known throughout my life say and do. The structure of our society sickens me.

If you know me well, you know I’m not really someone who is super into marriage or the idea of being married. I never really was.

I remember the neighbor girl, Skyler, making a scrapbook of what she wanted her dream wedding to look like when we were twelve or thirteen. I remember thinking, Girl… the fuck? But instead I probably said something like, “Dang girl, that’s a poofy dress.”

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had serious boyfriends. I’ve lived with men. We’ve had the marriage conversation. Yikes. Call me avoidant or call me a Sagittarius or something, but I remember sitting there thinking, There is absolutely no way this will ever be happening.

I’ve gone on dates with men who were the only child, the youngest, or the second youngest in their families. As they talked, I sat across the table thinking, You’re not looking for a girlfriend.

You’re looking for a mommy.

Free me from that torment please and thanks.

Circling back. My strange, one-of-a-kind fingerprints say that my life path is the heart. At first, I was like, Girl what? I mean, a couple weeks ago I told my mom I just wanted to be single for a while and she said, “You’ve BEEN single.” Okay, Kristine.

When I apply the idea of heart to romantic relationships? No. But when I apply that idea to my younger siblings and my closest friends? Yes! I AM on the heart lifepath. I love those people with all of me.

I have given my whole heart to them.

So maybe the “heart” doesn’t have to represent romantic love like the media, society, and the Church tell us it should. Like every epic movie, novel, and Catholic mother shoves down our throats (not my mom though, stay safe you other Catholic school girls).

Maybe, and just maybe, it can be about loving the people around us with everything we have. Maybe it means stepping up and being who your little siblings need.

Maybe it means being the big sister you never had and giving that love back to yourself with a sweet treat and a bottle of prosecco.