When you’re a child navigating the world without siblings, it can feel like you’re doing it all wrong. I recently found a letter I wrote to Santa at age six, begging for a sibling in every possible form: half-sister, adopted sister, stepsister, foster sister, and even brother. Decades later, my wish remains unchanged. Being an only child, I’ve learned, is a loneliness that never truly fades.
My parents divorced when I was one, ruling out a full sibling early on. I lived with my single mum and was content until I saw friends with siblings—built-in playmates, co-conspirators, and confidants. I pleaded with my mother, who secretly wished for the same, but circumstances prevented it. At 12, I moved in with my dad and stepmother, hoping for a half-sibling, but their PhDs meant no baby arrived.
Without close cousins, I grew up surrounded by adults. The focus on me was often mortifying. One summer, during my second period, I tried to avoid swimming. Instead, my grandparents and stepmum orchestrated a tampon tutorial, complete with Vaseline and a waiting audience. While successful, the experience highlighted how different life was without siblings to share the embarrassment.
Now 38, my longing for a sibling has only deepened. In an era of rising only-child families, I hesitate to voice this loneliness, fearing it might upset parents who chose to have one child. Yet the feeling persists. I’ll never know sibling squabbles or the joy of being an aunt. But I have given my two daughters each other—and already relish their bickering, knowing they’ll never face the world alone.
