I was seven when the world ended—at least, that’s how it felt. One moment I was coloring in the backseat, the next I was waking up in a hospital bed being told my parents weren’t coming back. My older sister, Amelia, was only twenty-one. She had a fiancé, a promising college path, a whole life lined up neatly in front of her. And in a single night, she pushed it all aside.
She became my everything—my mother, my sister, my protector. She worked two jobs, packed my lunches, helped me with homework, sat through every school play, every scraped knee, every heartbreak. But she never dated again. Never tried to build a life of her own.
When I got married and finally moved out, she visited every single day. At first, it felt sweet—comforting even. But soon, it became overwhelming. One afternoon, exhausted after work and feeling smothered, I snapped.
“I’m not your child! Go start your own family and let me breathe!”
The words hit her like a physical blow. She just nodded, quietly, and left. And then—nothing. Weeks turned into months. No calls, no messages. I told myself she was just angry, that she needed space. But guilt gnawed at me constantly.
One rainy morning, unable to take it anymore, I drove to her flat. The door was unlocked.
When I stepped inside, I froze.
The living room was filled with boxes, pastel ribbons, and what looked like dozens of tiny baby clothes scattered across the floor. For a terrifying moment, I thought she’d finally broken under the weight of loneliness and the years she’d sacrificed for me.
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