In which Matthew reconnects through yoga

I hate yoga, as a general rule. But my mother's dear friend Lois (she's known us since I was seven) is a yoga instructor at her local Y: yoga primarily for the extremely young (say, age seven) or the extremely old (say, age seventy).

Early October, six years ago, I was ears-deep in two majors (one in Drama, which requires yoga; again, I really hate yoga), a senior thesis, and the growing pains of my first truly long-term romantic relationship (we'd moved in together!). I'd only enrolled in my expensive college with a clear promise from both of my parents that I would graduate with no debt; I wasn't going into any money-making professions, and I had a feeling that I had the wrong personality type for debt (a few years of graduate school have proved me quite correct). As estranged as I became from my father, a promise was a promise. The truth was that it was the only reason I still put up with him.

But years had passed, and 9/11 had happened, and the economy had tanked, and my dad had started calling me and telling me I "might maybe have to take out some loans." In the meantime he'd remarried and had a new kid. Caitlin. Early October, six years ago, was Caitlin's first birthday; it fell on the day before my sister Marissa's fourteenth birthday. Saturday and Sunday. Technically, since I share one parent with each, each is my half-sister.

But I grew up with and continue to share a life with Marissa and her father; I barely knew Caitlin's fertility-drug-and-probably-Valium-popping mother, and I had spent the single year of Caitlin's life doing everything I could to distance myself from our father while still keeping college paid for.

My real sister and fake sister, on the same birthday weekend. And I was very busy in October 2002. I only had time for one. My father had said a lot of unacceptable things in his lifetime, but somehow "You have a responsibility to be a big brother to this child," responsibility on top of thesis rent internships rehearsal metrocard classes girlfriend essays credits yoga, and then "She is as much your sister as Marissa," pushed me in a new way. Also: Dad no longer had the money to back up his point.

I have not heard from him, or any of his blood relatives, since then. Which was the most fantastic thing that could have happened. Mom came through and handled the rest of tuition. I graduated with honors. The thesis won an award, and helped me get into an amazing graduate program, where I now make my money from, not for, my studies -- no strained conversations with unpleasant family, and no yoga, necessary. And the same long-term relationship endures, and has never been stronger, and despite the newest economic downturn we're getting married this May.

But then, my mother called last week. Lois has a new batch of seven-year-olds in her class at the Y this year. Caitlin, she says, looks exactly like I did when I was her age. She, apparently, likes yoga. I do not. Mom thought this was one of those funny small-world things. Lois, like my mother, remarried and took her new husband's name. There is no recognizable trace. Parents rarely enter the yoga room (they go straight to the pool afterwards) so as long as Lois keeps things quiet (and I've begged her to) we're cool. We're cool.