A class of eight-year-olds sit impatiently in a circle of small red plastic chairs. Some swing forwards and backwards absentmindedly. Some chatter with excited animation. A few others sit patiently as they await the arrival of the teacher’s presence. When she eventually joins them, a hush gradually descends. This is circle time, they are told, which must now begin.
My heart beats quickly as today’s task is revealed. Talk about something you would wish or hope for if you could have anything at all. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. What should I wish for? I race to find an answer but this shy eight-year-old meets a blank page where her thoughts should be.
Three animal-loving children explain their wish for a family pet. Others set their sights on Disneyland. A soft-spoken boy to my right explains that his grandmother never saw him learn trombone and he wishes she had. Someone else follows that with a serious need for the latest Nintendo console. Their words are a background noise to my thoughts, though, as I worry over my own response.
As my turn to speak nears, dozens of eyes turn to me in expectation and I stutter over my carefully chosen answer. A sister, I say quietly. I have two brothers, but I’d also like a sister. The teacher pauses for a moment as she takes in my revelation. I can’t help you with that one, she laughs, and moves on. I shrink into my chair with embarrassment. I should have said I wanted a puppy too.
***
Twenty years later I am at a hen do when this scene resurfaces from the deep files of my memory. Cocktails flow and party games are in full force. The bride sits across from me, a wide white sash and elegant tiara marking her as the one we’re here to celebrate. I smile over at her and she grins joyfully back. She’s soon to be my sister-in-law.
As the bride is interrogated with questions like “What was your most memorable date?” and “Who is the most romantic?”, I think about the wish I made as a quiet eight-year-old back in the early noughties. I think about how that wish is now coming true in a way that I could not foresee at the time. I wish I could talk to that reserved little eight-year-old as her face flushed red with humiliation in the small confines of her primary four classroom. I wish I could tell her that her hopes weren’t as silly as the teacher made her feel. That she’d have a sister one day. That she’d have two, in fact.
With the perspective of adulthood, I find myself reflecting on why my younger self pinned her hopes on the companionship of a sister. After all, I already had two brothers who were (and are) as fun, caring and inspiring as two older siblings could possibly be. Why did I want something more? Perhaps, I think now, I just wanted an extra hand to hold through school and beyond. Perhaps that young introvert just wanted someone else to look out for her.
Back at the hen do, the evening has dipped into a reflective moment after the earlier hilarity over wedding-themed games and love-themed goody bags. Now the bride delivers a speech of carefully chosen words as she thanks each person gathered at her celebration. This is her moment and she delivers with an unfaltering confidence, even as she is heckled by her lively hen party.
When she turns to me, her eyes look bright with excitement and hope for the future. I’m so lucky and happy to be joining your family, she says. I can’t wait for it to become official. I smile at her again but don’t yet have the words to reply. How can I explain in this brief moment that this wedding means both our hopes are being fulfilled? That story will have to wait till later.
***
In the primary four classroom, chairs are hastily packed away as the clock ticks closer to home time. I lift mine quietly and place it neatly under my desk. Around me, my classmates discuss their post-school plans but among an energetic mis-match of swimmers, footballers and saxophonists I stay quiet. As 3pm pulls closer, I linger in the embarrassment from the reaction to my circle time revelation.
As others pack away pencil cases and put on their muti-coloured coats I get lost in my own thoughts. I hope my classmates forget what I said this afternoon. I hope no one brings it up again. If they do, though, I resolve to tell a lie. I’ll muster the confidence to tell everyone that I too hoped only for a puppy. In doing so, I make a promise to keep the real wish I revealed today a secret from anyone else. Well, that is for a while, at least.