When a friend commented that she never hears me mention my half sister, I said that’s because I don’t have a half sister.

When my mom and dad got divorced, they each remarried and each had a daughter. Cindy and Maryann became my sisters. True, blue, 100 percent sisters.

We didn’t have any half siblings in our family. I always thought it was ridiculous to say someone had half a sister. There is no such thing.

While my mom and dad might not have agreed on much, they were both adamant about saying my brother and I didn’t have any half siblings.

We just had loving, amazing, incredible sisters. I loved them and marveled at both of them from the time they were born.

Maryann lived with my dad and his second wife hundreds of miles away from me. I did more with Cindy because we lived in the same house. But Maryann and I were always tied together by heart strings.

I’m 18 years older than my sisters. At first glance, some might think that big age difference would mean we wouldn’t be so close. Somehow I knew they were blessings from the time they first arrived. They weren’t just sisters. They grew into the kind of people I would want to be around, even if we weren’t related.

The attitude of parents goes a long way toward forming our own attitudes. My parents believed in the “more to love” theory of family.

When I came home crying from a birthday party because the celebrant’s mother said I was a “victim” of divorce and didn’t have the love of my parents, my father’s reaction was unforgettable.

“Actually, you are luckier than most kids because you have four parents to love you - not two,” he said.

That was true. I had two wonderful stepparents who cared about me and showed love in so many ways.

When my two little sisters came along, all of us knew it meant we had more family to love.

There was one time when my father unwittingly caused my sister Maryann to resent me.

She worked hard in school and was proud to come home with a good report card. Instead of praising her, my father repeatedly told a story that caused her pain.

He liked telling the tale of what he did when I brought a report card home with a 99 average. He looked at it and said: “What happened to the other point?”

I knew he thought he was being funny. He never realized the hurt he was causing for Maryann by constantly bringing being up my grades instead of praising her for her efforts.

While I was good academically, all my life I was plagued by an inability to get from one place to another without getting lost. I’ve always had a terrible sense of direction.

If I came to an intersection with two ways to go, I had a 100 percent chance of picking the wrong way.

Dad and Maryann lived 320 miles from me. I must have driven that trip dozens of times. And every time I arrived late because I got lost in the city. That was before the days of a GPS, of course.

After countless times of waiting for me while I inevitably got lost again, my father wanted to know why in the world I couldn’t remember a route I drove dozens of times.

He said Maryann had a great sense of direction. As a company trouble shooter she covered several states, constantly driving to new locations and never got lost, dad said.

I saw Maryann’s face crumble when he said this. She didn’t relish Dad’s compliment about her. The look on her face was nothing but dismay.

Maryann didn’t want her sister’s feelings to be hurt.

My sweet, caring sister did something incredible as a follow-up. Believe it or not, she devised a way for me to get through the city to their house by only making left-hand turns.

“When you come to an intersection, don’t think. Always turn left,” she said.

Remarkably, it worked.

When my dad was in the hospital at what we knew would soon be the end of his life, Maryann and I went to dinner and talked about the father we revered.

Maryann said we had two different fathers. “You were lucky,” she said. “You had the young father who taught you to swim, fish and to waltz on skates. I was the cheated child. I never had the chance to do things like that with him,” she said.

I countered by telling her it could be said that I was a cheated child, too. He moved away when I was 10. When I called long-distance to talk with my dad I heard him playing with my sister while I seldom saw him.

I told her about holding back the tears when Dad missed the Philadelphia Press Association awards ceremony where I was getting an award for a column I wrote about him. He had obligations with his second family.

After we debated who was “the cheated child,” my sister and I looked at each other and knew neither one of us was cheated. We were both incredibly blessed.

My winning column was called “Melody of Love.”

Dad and Maryann are now gone but I forever hear their melody of love.

Contact Pattie Mihalik at newsgirl@comcast.net.