Growing up, I always tried to be best friends with my older sister, Sasha. I bought clothes to match her wardrobe, and whenever she started a hobby, I would start it too. But instead of seeing a shadow, she saw an opponent.
Every award she won in running, dance, or anything else, was not a victory to be shared, but a weapon to be wielded. “Bet you couldn’t do this, could you?” she’d say, waving the medal in my face. My enthusiastic hugs were met with angry shoves that often sent me sprawling.
The breaking point, the moment my childhood ended, came on my twelfth birthday. Our parents got me a pink, glittery bike—the exact one Sasha had always wanted. As soon as I unboxed it, I ran to her room, my heart pounding with a desperate hope that this gift could be a bridge between us.
“Do you want to be the first one to ride it?” I asked. “Sure,” she said, a strange smirk on her face. She wheeled it to the end of our driveway.
For a split second, I thought this might be it, a moment of sisterly peace. But then, instead of getting on, she locked eyes with me and threw the bike directly into the road, right as a truck passed by. The sound of crunching metal was the sound of my heart breaking.
I vowed then to never share my life with her again. But secrets are hard to keep in a small house. When I was fourteen, I won first place at the regional cross-country championships.
Sasha, who had yet to leave for college, overheard my parents talking about it. To my surprise, she asked to come to my awards ceremony. I thought, foolishly, that she was trying to rebuild our friendship.
On the big day, the coach announced the winners in reverse order. He called third place, then second. My moment was next.
But right before he could call my name, Sasha dramatically collapsed onto the floor. The entire room turned. Gasps filled the silence.
She didn’t “wake up” until the sound of ambulance sirens echoed outside. “Oh, sorry everyone,” she announced, jolting straight up with perfect comedic timing. “I just didn’t eat enough today.” Everyone marveled at her recovery.
I just rolled my eyes. From then on, I kept my life a secret. It was lonely, but safer.
That is, until I was seventeen. My parents found the acceptance letter before I did. When I got home from school, my mom was screaming with joy.
“Honey, we are so proud of you! An Ivy League university!”
Without missing a beat, they started taking pictures, plastering my achievement all over their social media. For the first time in years, I let them be happy for me.
I figured Sasha, now away at her own college, couldn’t possibly ruin this one. I was wrong. The next day, I woke up to my parents barging into my room, throwing my things into black garbage bags.
“Your sister has just been diagnosed with stage three ovarian cancer,” my mom said, her voice shaking. “She’ll need one room for her things and one to sleep in.”
I knew instantly she was faking it. The timing, the drama, the way it perfectly eclipsed my success—it was her signature move, just on a terrifying new scale.
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