The Greatest Gift
One day, I was telling my mother about a new girl in school. Suddenly she asked, "Who are your two best friends, Helen?"
"Jill and Jaime."
"Well, what about Karen and Cindy?"
"I don't know who their best friends are."
"No," she said. "I mean, why aren't they your best friends?" She seemed upset and hurt.
"But they're my sisters."
"Yes, but they can still be your best friends. Friends may come and go, but your sisters will always be there for you."
At the time, the idea of my sisters being my closest friends seemed strange to me. We used to fight over toys, food, attention and what to watch on television. But my mother never let the three of us forget it: sisters are lifelong friends. Her wish was to give us something that she had never had. When she gave birth to three daughters, the fulfillment（实现）of her dream had only just begun. She had given us each a gift—our sisters—and she wanted to make sure we did not take that gift for granted. She would frequently tell us how lucky we were, constantly take us to places together so we grew closer, and would even punish us equally, giving us yet another bonding（亲密关系）experience.
It was somewhere in between Mom's lectures, the family vacations and the shared memories that we realized that Mom was right. Today I share things with my sisters that I share with no one else. My sister Cindy and I ran the New York City Marathon together, side by side, holding hands when crossing the finishing line. When Karen got married, I was her maid of honor. The three of us trust each other with our greatest secrets.
It was twenty-three years ago that my mother first asked me who my two best friends were. Today she doesn't have. She already knows.

Mom punished the sisters equally to make them understand they were connected by blood tie.