My sister became my entire world the day our mother died. I was twelve, lost and terrified, and she was only nineteen, barely an adult herself. While her friends were starting college and planning their futures, she dropped everything to raise me. She worked double shifts, skipped parties, and learned how to be both parent and sibling overnight. I didn’t understand sacrifice back then. All I saw was that she stayed behind while I dreamed of escaping. I told myself her life choices were temporary, that once I succeeded, everything would make sense.
I went to college. Then medical school. I studied relentlessly, convinced that success erased all debts. At my graduation ceremony, standing in my cap and gown, surrounded by applause, I felt invincible. When I saw her in the crowd, tired eyes and worn hands, something ugly rose inside me. I laughed and said it out loud, in front of others. I told her I had climbed the ladder while she had taken the easy road and become nobody. She didn’t argue. She smiled softly, hugged me, and walked away.
Three months passed without a single call. At first, I was angry. Then annoyed. Then uneasy. I told myself she was being dramatic, punishing me for a harmless joke. I was busy anyway — long shifts, new responsibilities, a life I believed I had earned alone. Still, something gnawed at me late at night. The silence felt heavier than anger. Finally, while back in town for work, I decided to stop by her place, convinced I’d smooth things over with a half-hearted apology and move on.