“It’s a girl!”
My grandmother softly roused me from sleep, her whisper carrying the weight of the joyous news I had been dreaming of. It was the dead of night, yet I was wide awake, filled with anticipation.
At school the next day, I proudly declared to my first-grade classmates, “I have a baby sister!” When we visited the hospital, my dad lifted me so I could gaze through the nursery window. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass, my heart racing as I looked down at her—a plump little bundle we named Emily.
My older brother had been hoping for a boy, always quicker and more adept than me. In that moment, I felt victorious. Little did I know, it would take years for that feeling to return.
As toddlers, Emily would come to my door, eager to play, only for me to slam it shut in her face. But by the time she reached first grade, I found myself envious of her social skills. While she was off at friends’ houses on weekends, my brother and I were content to stick together with our parents, whether we were rummaging through an antique shop or enduring yet another estate sale. It was our original crew, and it felt just right.
During middle school, I often overheard my mom chatting with her friends. They would comment on how helpful I must be and how the six-year age gap eliminated sibling rivalry. My mom never corrected them, but deep down, I knew I was hardly the model sister; I treated Emily with disdain instead of the kindness she deserved.
My mother suggested my jealousy stemmed from my little sister taking my position as the baby of the family. I dismissed her theory as nonsense, attributing my irritation to Emily’s constant neediness. After school, she would want to watch her favorite shows while I craved my own space. I felt suffocated by her presence.
Eventually, I left for college, and everything changed. The distance meant no more competition for the bathroom, the phone, or the last cookie. With time apart, I started to see things from a different perspective.
About a month into my freshman year, Emily called me, sobbing and convinced our parents were heading for divorce. I tried to comfort her, reminding her that their arguments were nothing new. As she cried, I longed to be there to hug her. In that moment, my sister transformed from a nuisance into the one person who truly understood me.
When she visited during my senior year, I shared my clothes and took her to a party where we sipped cocktails. We crashed on my futon afterward, her promise to keep our weekend antics from our parents hanging in the air.
Before I headed off to graduate school, my mom insisted I sort through my old room. Amidst my childhood treasures, I found a card I had crafted when Emily was a baby, ill with a fever. I had drawn a woman with wild black hair holding a small figure with two dots for eyes and a single squiggle of hair beside a smaller person with pigtails. Above it, I had penned: “I will help you. Will you help me?”
Now, as an adult, I often reach out to Emily for everything and nothing. Whether it’s about freezing quinoa, the struggles of motherhood, or pondering how she manages to keep the peace with our mom, she is my go-to. Just as I promised so many years ago, she’s always there to lend a hand.
After the birth of my second child, when everything felt overwhelming, Emily made a last-minute trip to support me. Between sleep deprivation and the challenges of mothering two young ones, I felt trapped in despair. But her arrival signified hope.
Emily knows me like no one else can; our shared upbringing and familial ties create a bond unlike any other. Little did my six-year-old self know that the sister I had so fervently wished for would grow to become my best friend.
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