Reprinted from the Boston Globe Sunday Magazine (online 11/22/24; in print 11/24/24)

https://www.bostonglobe.com/2024/11/22/magazine/sisterhoods-twists-and-turns/

I had adored Nora Ephron since before I even knew what she was so ornery about (neck wattle? what???), so it was an indescribably meta moment for me when I heard from her sister, Delia.

The long and winding road of my connection to Delia Ephron started with my serendipitous glance at a television segment, which led to listening to a podcast, which led to her memoir, Left on Tenth (now a Broadway play). I can’t say exactly why I was initially drawn to her. Delia and I have absolutely nothing in common. Seriously, not one thing.

She is decades older than me; she could be my mother.

She has no children; I have enough for both of us.

She is a dog lover — rather, a fanatic; I merely love people who love dogs.

And, in addition to battling cancer multiple times, she has buried both a beloved husband and her beloved older sister, Nora.

I began listening to her audiobook and quickly found tiny connections to Delia. Soon I was taking walks multiple times a day just to return to the book, alternately grinning or weeping as I waved to both curious and concerned neighbors passing by. I don’t recall Nora Ephron ever making me cry, but her sister sure did.

Humblebrag: I was having a pretty great year. My kids were thriving, our first family wedding was on the horizon, and there was nary a dark cloud in our skies. But beneath my sunny surface I was really sad. And deeply depressed. My sister and I were going through a thing and hadn’t spoken in months. During one of the happiest times of my adult life, my sister was not around.

Once extremely close, our relationship over time had lapsed into an infrequent, almost perfunctory checkmark. Each of us was busy with full families and full lives and time and distance had eroded our bond. But even throughout long stretches of aloofness it had always been easy to bounce back. We’ve had things in the past, but this time seemed different. This stalemate of silence felt final.

At one of my lowest points, Delia’s words hit. In telling a story about Nora, the sentence seeped into my soul: “Sisterhood is muddy,” she wrote.

Delia then told of an adored friendship that stopped abruptly and went forgotten, silent and unforgiving for years until she picked up the phone and called her friend out of the blue.

I mulled doing the same. Instead, I reached out to Delia.

I found her website and wrote her a note, mentioning our tiny connections, and blathering on about the universe bringing her words, her stories, and her hope to me when I needed them most. I thanked her for providing me with a glimmer of hope for better days.

As soon as I sent the note, I felt embarrassed and ashamed — writing to a total stranger who had actually grieved her own sister, and here I was actively and intentionally grieving my own living sister. The reality of my foolishness was suffocating.

Delia’s response was everything.

She was delightful and gracious and witty and said she was glad to hear of our many connections, even adding, “You’re a writer, so you know how cheering it is to get a positive response from a reader.” She called me a writer. I swooned.

This woman, who has survived more grief and heartache and sickness than I could ever — even if I started today — waved a wand of kindness to a total stranger and soothed my mind.

Sometimes comfort finds you in the most surprising ways.

Delia’s thoughtful words cleared my stubborn fog and I called my sister out of the blue. We ranted and raved throughout our lengthy exchange but after a while we bounced back, as we do. We ended with I love yous and I knew: We would be fine. Maybe not perfect, and likely without the Teflon bond of our youth, but fine enough.

Because we’re sisters.

And sisterhood is muddy.

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Tina Drakakis is a writer in Plymouth. Send comments to magazine@globe.com.