I’d pressed myself against the wall, trying to make my body smaller, feeling the shame burn in my cheeks. Later, I overheard Mom talking to her.
“That wasn’t kind, Sabrina.”
“What? It’s not my fault she’s fat.”
“Honey, don’t say things like that about your sister.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
Later that same day, Mom said to me,“She doesn’t mean it. She’s just going through a phase.”
But she never outgrew that phase. And Mom had never stopped making excuses for her.
The memory shifts, blurring into another. We were both teenagers, and Sabrina was already beyond beautiful. She walked into my room without knocking. Her eyes landed on theshoes I’d bought for the winter formal—my first school dance where I actually had a date.
“Cute,” she says, running her fingers over the pointy ends. “Can I borrow these on Friday?”
My stomach drops. “I was going to wear them to the dance on Friday.”
Her face hardens. “So? You can wear something else. Tyler Matthews asked me to go with him, and I need something new.”
“But I don’t have any other shoes,” I try to protest, my voice already shrinking. “And I’ve been saving for the shoes for months.”
When Mom walked in on our argument, I’d been certain she’d take my side. They were my shoes. I’d paid for them with money I earned working extra shifts at the bakery.
Instead, she’d placed her hand on my shoulder, her eyes pleading.“Just let her have this one, Lina. There’ll be other dances.”
I’d given in. Of course I had. I always did.
Sabrina wore my shoes to the dance with Tyler Matthews. Two days later, I found them on her floor, one heel broken off. I never made it to the winter formal, and she never thanked me, apologized, or replaced the shoes.
There were a hundred moments like that. A thousand. Each one teaching me the same lesson. My wants, my needs, my very existence were negotiable. Something to be accommodated only when convenient, sacrificed when not.
Even after Mom got sick, nothing changed. Sabrina still came first. When Mom needed rides to appointments, Sabrina was always too busy with her social life. When Mom needed someone to hold her hand when she was scared, it was always me.
“Your sister’s having a hard time accepting my illness,”Mom would say, making excuses.“She processes grief differently than you do.”
But when did anyone consider how I was processing grief? When did anyone make excuses for me?
Never.
It was as though I wasn’t allowed to be shocked and scared when she was diagnosed with ALS in August. Or when her health declined so fast she had to stop working in the bakery in September.
When October came with respiratory changes, I once again had to be the one standing. Sabrina couldn’t deal and usually stayed away, leaving me to be the strong one for Mom.
Yet, when I brought up hospice options in November, I was the bad one—the one eager to get rid of Mom. But when Sabrina decided on it in December, she was brave.
And when Mom wanted to… God, I can’t even think the thoughts. But… again, it was me. It was me she asked—no, begged—and I did it. I did what she asked, even while I’d lose a piece of myself. Of my soul.
My reflection stares back at me, and I see something new in my eyes. Something hard and bright that wasn’t there before.
Anger.
It’s not an explosive rage, but something steadier, more permanent. A pilot light that refuses to be extinguished.
“Why was I always the one who had to sacrifice?” The words leave my lips before I can stop them, my voice shattering the morning quiet.
Why was it always me? Why did Mom teach me to shrink myself for Sabrina’s comfort? Why did she never demand the same consideration from her? Why did she… a sob builds in my throat as I think about what Raffaele told me.
