Brooke Davis.

The past couple of weeks I have been consumed with thoughts of my baby sister.

It is a paralyzing feeling not to know your own sisters name.

To know everything about her birth and the first three years of her life and yet to know absolutely nothing about her now.

She could live in India for all I know.

She could be a drug addict. Or a nun. Or a mom. Or a lesbian. Or Amish. Or a professional athlete. Or locked in a psych ward somewhere secret. There are infinite possibilities as to where she is and how she is. And I have no place to begin because even her birthdate isn’t reliable.

Foster care. Adoption. Families torn apart. Children punished for another’s wrongdoing. Lives eternally separated. Bonds crushed. A piece of me, gone forever, with the flick of a pen.

There should be laws restricting the separation of biological siblings surrendered to state custody. Period.

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