I always despised my older sister. That truth sits in my chest like a stone, heavy and impossible to move.
To me, she was everything I didn’t want to become—uneducated, constantly exhausted, smelling faintly of bleach and cheap soap. She worked as a cleaner, scrubbing other people’s messes for a living, always counting coins at the end of the month, always worrying about debt. When friends asked about her, I avoided the topic. When classmates talked about ambitious siblings and successful families, I stayed quiet.
She was five years older than me, yet somehow felt decades behind in life. Or at least that’s how I saw it.
I was the “smart one.” The one teachers praised. The one with potential. From a young age, everyone said I was destined for something bigger. University. A respectable career. A future that smelled like books and offices, not disinfectant and trash bags.
My sister never argued with that narrative. She never defended herself. She just smiled—softly, tiredly—and kept going.
When I received my university acceptance letter, my phone buzzed nonstop with congratulations. Friends, relatives, old classmates. And then her name appeared on the screen.
She called me that evening, her voice warm and proud.
“I knew you could do it,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”
Something ugly rose inside me then—pride mixed with shame, irritation mixed with superiority. I didn’t want her happiness. I wanted distance.
“Don’t bother,” I snapped. “Go clean toilets. That’s what you’re good at.”
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