As we filed out of the glass foundry, we were each handed a souvenir wrapped in paper: a handmade glass horse, standing on its hind legs. Mine had an aqua-blue and green swirl.

This would be the perfect gift for Naomi, I immediately thought. My sister is an avid reader, and during one phase, she got hooked on horse novels. She read every book she could find on the subject, while weaving dreams of owning her very own stallion. I knew she would love this galloping glass figurine, and I resolved to keep it safe for her. I carefully wrapped it up again, lest it break on the trip back home.

Naomi is only three years older than I am, but as a child, I idolized her. She was like a best friend and second mother merged into one.

We shared a bedroom, just the two of us, and her mere presence in the room on dark nights made me feel safe. She was my secret keeper, the only one who knew my innermost thoughts. As I would lie in bed late at night, my mind spinning, I’d call out quietly, “Naomi, are you still up?” She’d mumble a response, which I took to mean that she was listening, and the gates were open, my voice filling up the room with my ideas and impressions from the day. When I was punished in school or sent to the principal’s office, it was Naomi I shared it with.

Some nights, we’d stay awake long past our bedtime, playing imaginary games together, creating our own perfect world. In one of our imaginary games, we dreamed up a closet full of art supplies, where together, we’d create all kinds of masterpieces. Two budding artists dreaming up possibilities.

I followed Naomi loyally, aspiring to be like her. I sang the songs she learned in school, played alongside her and her friends, and shadowed her faithfully. I felt incomplete without her. I trusted her implicitly. In my eyes, she could do no wrong.

I watched Naomi grow, going through the phases of her teenage years. I watched her build her circle of friends, heard her talking on the phone late into the night, and slowly I saw her move farther and farther away from me.

Still, I remained in the wings, waiting for her to be with me again. Stubbornly I waited for her to turn around and see me. Soon, soon, we would ride our bikes together again, I consoled myself. Soon, she would notice me and play a game of Monopoly with me.

But soon never came. Naomi had her friends, and before my eyes, she began to change. First it was her hairstyle, then it was her dress. Somewhere along the line, her language changed. I covered my ears and closed my eyes. Perhaps, if I kept them covered long enough, the Naomi I loved so much would come out of hiding. I would count to ten and then I’d find her again, just like the game of hide-and-seek we used to play together.

I wasn’t home when Naomi moved out of the house. I was hours away in camp, oblivious to the rupture occurring in my home. I never did find out what happened. Was there a big fight that prompted her to flee? Was she ever planning on coming back? I had no answers. These things weren’t spoken about. I couldn’t even mention my sister’s name around my devastated parents. Her name was taboo.

So, at the age of 16, while I was laughing frivolously at camp and creating intricate art projects, I lost my sister. I came home to an empty room, with not a trace of her belongings. Her closet had been stripped bare, her books removed, her artwork torn from the walls. She’d taken everything with her.

I lost my sister to a world I didn’t know about or belong to. And I lost my parents, too, who couldn’t bear the pain of watching their daughter destroy her life. Their sadness filled our home.

My mother took it especially hard, and although I missed Naomi terribly, it was my mother’s deep depression that dominated my mind. I did everything I could to make her smile. I’d help around the house and buy her little treats like ice cream or a new book. I worked hard to please her, to give her the nachas she wasn’t getting from her other daughter.

I cried only at night, when the darkness hid my tears, and a pillow muffled my sobs. The grief was unbearable. It was as if I was missing an arm or a leg. Naomi had been everything to me.

I wished I could somehow connect with Naomi. Was she safe, wherever she was living? Would I ever see her again? Or would our family remain splintered forever?

My older siblings, already married, were in contact with Naomi from time to time. The little I gleaned from them was enough to discourage me from making that phone call. Her “friends” were antagonistic toward anything to do with religion or our family.

When I graduated high school, Naomi wasn’t at my graduation. But she did send me a card in the mail. A small sign that she still cared, that my big sister hadn’t forgotten me.

The summer after my graduation, I flew to Europe, escaping the grip of sadness and grief that filled our home. I schmoozed and laughed with my friends, walking a tightrope above the sea of pain beneath me. When I received the glass horse, I knew I needed to give it to Naomi. I just didn’t know how.

I arrived back home with the glass horse thankfully intact. I placed it beside the antique china doll on my shelf, waiting for the opportunity to present it to Naomi. I couldn’t bring myself to take the first step and call her. Perhaps I was afraid to hurt my parents. Perhaps I was afraid Naomi would reject my gift.

I found a job as a secretary in a school, and my days took on a regular routine. I tried not to think about Naomi. Yet each time I glanced at the shelf in my room, I’d feel a tug at my heart. In my mind’s eye, I could see the horse lifting up and galloping straight into Naomi’s arms. I let myself imagine, hoping for that day. I wanted to see her again, to talk with her, to be her friend once more.

But Naomi never called. She never wrote. The hope in my heart slowly gave way to the pain of her abandonment and anger for the destruction she had wrought in our home. Did she realize? Did she even care? Doubt seeped into my thoughts: Had she ever truly loved me? Or had I been a nuisance she had always wanted to be rid of? How could she have discarded me so carelessly?

The glass horse must have lost patience, too, because one day it fell and cracked. When I found it, it was lying on its side, a thin glass leg broken off. I propped it up on some other knickknack on the shelf, while propping up the dream in me. A dream that seemed to be slowly cracking.

IT was a long and lonely year. And then I became a kallah.

Even amid the hectic wedding preparations, I thought of Naomi often. I desperately wanted to dance with her at my wedding. I dreamed of reconnecting, of bridging the gap between us, of somehow reuniting our broken family.

I did some investigating and found her mailing address. On the back of my wedding invitation, I wrote a little note for her, and sealed the envelope with a prayer. I dropped it in the mailbox, knowing I was going against my parents, and yet how could I get married without my sister? How could I not dance with her on that night?

I shed so many tears, willing her to be at my chasunah. But was I dreaming for the impossible? Would Naomi ever show up? She hadn’t come to my engagement party. She hadn’t even called to wish me mazel tov.

There was a flurry of activity as my wedding day approached, and one day I received a call that my new apartment was ready. It was time to move on. I sat on the carpet of my childhood room, surrounded by boxes of clothing and books. I lovingly packed up my collections and mementos to take with me. Photos from school and camp, paintings, and other pieces of artwork I had created over the years. My eyes roamed across the room, landing on the cracked horse.

I reached for the glass figurine. I rubbed my fingers along its sleek body, while the old hope of a loving reunion ripped through me. The sharp edge of the broken leg scratched my thumb. I stared at the blood slowly seeping out of the tiny cut in my finger. Biting my lip, I forbid the pain to hurt me. The figurine was cracked. No use in keeping this legless horse any longer. I tossed it into the trash can.

Naomi did not come to my wedding. It was a bittersweet celebration, my heart chipped where love had once been. I begged Hashem to comfort me. My sister was alive, but I could not continue mourning her as if she were dead. I needed to move on. So I tried to forget the sister I had. I relegated her to the past, together with the glass horse I had intended for her.

I was married with two children when I received a call from Naomi. I was startled to hear her familiar voice on the other end of the line. She softly asked me if we could reconnect. She was different now. She wanted to make amends for the past. I was too stunned to reply. When I finally found my voice, I told her that I needed time.

The grief I had long ago buried erupted inside of me. We had been so close, and then she’d abandoned me, never reaching out even though I’d never wronged her at all. The pain still seared inside of me. How could I trust such a person again? And yet, deep inside, I truly did want to have my sister back.

With my husband’s encouragement, I finally found the strength to reach out.

Those first few conversations, we both trod carefully, cautiously, dancing around the past. But eventually, I mustered up the courage to be honest and share that I’d felt abandoned by her. Naomi was immediately defensive, excusing herself for everything. Didn’t I know how much she’d gone through back then? She didn’t think I was right to blame her. It took time and more dialogue for both of us to recognize that while she wasn’t responsible for my pain, the pain was still real.

More conversations followed, some short, some light, but each a small milestone of connection. During one phone call, Naomi related to me that she was taking horseback riding lessons. I remembered the younger Naomi avidly reading horse novels and spinning tales of winning the Derby. I was so happy for her. At last, she was achieving her childhood dream.

As she spoke about her lesson and how she had fallen off the horse, I suddenly recalled another horse. A blue-green glass horse with a broken leg. The figurine I had longed to give her throughout that long period of separation.

That horse had cracked and had gone the way of all broken things. But the yearning I had felt, the deep desire to reconnect and build anew our special relationship — perhaps that could still be.

Someday I would share the story of the galloping figurine with Naomi. That was a gift I could still give her.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 876)