I was twelve when our mother passed away.
I still remember the smell of antiseptic in the hospital hallway and the way my sister stood so straight at the funeral, as if grief were something she could physically hold back with posture alone. She was nineteen—barely more than a girl herself—and yet that day, she became my entire world.
She dropped out of college without telling anyone. Took two jobs. Learned how to stretch a grocery list into a week’s worth of meals. Learned how to hide exhaustion behind a smile so convincing that even I believed her when she said, “We’re going to be okay.”
And somehow, we were.
At least, that’s what I told myself.
Years passed. I did well in school. I studied relentlessly. I climbed, rung by rung, toward the life everyone said I was destined for. College. Medical school. Residency. Each milestone felt like proof that everything she’d done had worked.
At my graduation, standing in that stiff gown with the applause ringing in my ears, I looked for her in the crowd. She sat in the back, clapping softly, eyes shining.
When she hugged me afterward, I was overflowing with pride—too much pride.
“See?” I said, laughing, drunk on achievement. “I climbed the ladder. You took the easy road and became a nobody.”
The words landed heavier than I expected. But she didn’t flinch. She just smiled—a small, tired smile—and said, “I’m proud of you.”
Then she left.
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