When I faιnted at graduation, the doctors called my parents. They never showed up. Instead, my sister tagged me in a photo. The caption reads, “Family Day. Nothing to say.” I said nothing. A few days later, still weak and on a ventilator, I saw seventy-five missed calls and a single text from my dad: “We need you. Answer immediately.” Without hesitation, I…

Looking back, I was treated like a tiny adult long before I stopped playing with crayons. Sabrina, on the other hand, was the princess. That word floated through our home as casually as the scent of Mom’s vanilla candles. Where’s my princess? Dad would call out the moment he walked through the door—even if I had been the one setting the table or helping carry groceries. Sabrina’s slightest frown earned soothing voices and gentle hugs. My tears were met with tired sighs or reminders that life isn’t always fair.

Whenever Sabrina and I fought over toys, space, or something as trivial as who got the bigger slice of cake, I was blamed. You’re older, they said. You should know better. Sabrina is sensitive. Sensitive became the shield she hid behind. Strong became the box I was locked inside.

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