Pressing pause on this newsletter

and my new favourite words: "Thursday", "chicken", "I love you"

My sister and me, the 90s

Dear Reader,

In my last post, The Long-Haul Flight Edition, I told you I was flying to London to help with some family troubles. While it was serious enough to have me booking a last-minute flight, it was nothing compared to what happened two days after I arrived. My little sister had a stroke. (Note to self, repeated often: she survived.)

My sister is 35, runs a pub and is the mother of two boys under two. She is tiny, sarcastic, funny, independent, and as the baby of our family she’s always been a unifying force. When she was little she called me Mimi; now her son calls me that as I tuck him into bed at night and tell him Mama will be home “soon”.

She and my little brother were my first understanding of pure love, the kind that also hurts and makes you worry, and wonder how much you’d be willing to suffer to keep them safe. (Please, I will do anything, I said to the sky as I took my sister’s babies for a walk while she was in emergency surgery; anything.) She …