She is your partner in crime, your midnight companion, someone who knows when you are smiling, even in the dark.

A few days ago, my little sister fell and hurt her foot. She was inconsolable, and my grandmother heard her yelling at me while I tried to calm her. "You wanted me to get hurt! You don't love me!" The biggest fear of an adopted child, heartbreakingly expressed in a moment of insecurity. 

"No," my grandmother said softly, "Heather's loved you since the first time she saw you." I remembered that first moment with baby Trinity, a year old and staring fearfully at the strangers who would soon become family. I still feel that love, even more for the sassy 8-year-old than the sweet baby she once was. She is and always has been one strong little girl.

I remember the day I learned that a camera was the quickest way to turn her tears into a smile. I remember the first time she looked at a picture of her own tear-streaked face and squeaked, "Cute!" I cried for her the day she noticed me taking her picture and said, "Don't take my picture anymore. I'm not pretty." Later, "Take my picture off Facebook. I'm too ugly." The insecurities of womanhood begin far too soon. 

I remember, as a teenager with too many burdens and no idea of where to find hope, listening to her soft toddler snores while I wept. I wanted to die that night, just like so many others. But when I held her hand, I felt the peace I needed to get through the day. 

She came into my life, so tiny and already having survived so much, during one of the most difficult times in my 8-year battle with depression. I was a stranger to her in mortality, but I know we've known one another's souls for ages. 

As she neared two years old, I remember listening to her giggles and wondering how anyone, even a baby, could be so happy. She had tantrums like any other toddler - okay, probably more - but to me, she was pure joy. 

When all I wanted to do was lie by myself and stare at the ceiling, she would run up to me, beeping my wheelchair's horn and demanding, "Picture, Issy! Tongue out, now!" There was no saying no to that.

I remember when she began to realize that disability wasn't normal, and most big sisters weren't in wheelchairs. I remember her tears of frustration as she asked me, "Why can't you just walk?" 

Just yesterday she asked me, for probably the hundredth time, "But do you like being in a wheelchair?" 

Five years after her first realization, disability is still a big thing for her to come to understand, but she has learned that wheelchairs can be fun and that if Sissy (finally earned that beginning "S"!) can't do it with her, she can probably call some missionaries who can. 

She's also learned that the missionaries are a lot cooler than her Sissy is, anyway. I don't deny it.

Attachment in adoption can be hard, and we've had some difficult times these past few years as she's tested me, seeing if I'm really here to stay and love her forever. It's worn me down many times, but I try to remember why this little one needs to know our attachment is secure. I can't promise her that I'll always be physically by her side, but I can promise that my love will never, ever change.

I won't hear the words "Can I sit on your lap?" from her many more times, but I do hope for a lifetime of hearing "Sissy, I need to talk."

That's what big sisters are here for.

I love this little girl -- young woman -- 60 pound Southern spitfire with all my heart. No matter how we were brought together in mortality or what may happen while we're here, I know beyond any doubt that our sisterhood began long ago as our spirits were formed and will last for an eternity more.