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I was twelve when our mother died.
The memory is still sharp—the antiseptic stinging the hospital air, the silence heavy in the hallway, and my sister standing tall at the funeral, as though sheer posture could hold back grief. She was nineteen then, barely more than a girl herself, yet in that moment she became my entire world.
She never told anyone, but she dropped out of college. She took two jobs. She learned how to stretch a grocery list into a week’s worth of meals. She learned how to disguise exhaustion with a smile so convincing that even I believed her when she said, “We’re going to be okay.”And somehow, we were. Or at least, that’s what I let myself believe.
Years passed. I excelled in school, studied relentlessly, and climbed rung by rung toward the life everyone said I was destined for. College. Medical school. Residency. Each milestone felt like proof that her sacrifices had worked.
At my graduation, wrapped in that stiff gown with applause echoing around me, I searched for her in the crowd. She sat quietly in the back, clapping softly, her 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 only smiled—a small, tired smile—and said, “I’m proud of you.”
Then she walked away.
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