She was only nine when everything changed. One day she was braiding her doll’s hair and playing tag in the yard, and the next, she was rocking her baby brother to sleep while their mother lay in bed, too tired and too sad to move.
She was born to be a sister—someone to share laughs, secrets, and maybe a little mischief. But life didn’t give her that choice. Instead, it handed her bottles to warm, diapers to change, and tears to soothe. While other kids worried about math homework and what to wear to school, she was learning how to make oatmeal, how to calm a colicky baby, and how to hold in her own tears for the sake of someone smaller who depended on her.
No child should have to grow up that fast.
People praised her. “She’s so responsible.” “Such a little adult.” But they didn’t see the weight she carried. They didn’t hear her crying quietly into her pillow, wishing someone would tuck her in for once. They didn’t see her eyes drift toward the playground at recess, longing to be carefree again, even for a moment.
She didn’t resent her baby brother. In fact, she loved him fiercely. She kissed his forehead when he had fevers and stayed up with him through sleepless nights. But deep down, she always wondered what it would’ve been like to just be a kid. To just be his sister—not his stand-in mother.
Now, years later, she’s grown. Her brother is taller, stronger, and doesn’t need her in the same way. Still, she watches him with a quiet pride. He turned out kind. Gentle. Full of heart. And part of that is because of her.
She was born to be a sister. Life forced her into the role of a mother. And though it was never fair, she carried it with grace, with love, and with strength beyond her years.
