The Sister Who Never Was

You Were Everything I Dreamed – And Nothing I Had

You taught my how to walk. At least, that’s what I used to tell people. In my stories, you held me under the arms as I took my first steps. Whispered, “You can do it.” And opened doors when the world got too loud. You stood in front of me like a shield. In my mind, you were my hero. My childhood, wrapped in gold.

But you were never really there. In reality, you locked the door. Your eyes were sharp, your lips tight every time I entered the room. My walk, my braces, my struggle—you didn’t see strength. You saw threat. My determination reminded you of what you lacked. And I was a mirror you couldn’t break, so you chose to ignore me. Still, I adored you.

There’s something sick about how deeply I loved someone who despised me. I needed you to be good. So, I made you that way. In my version, you waited for me after school. You never locked the door when friends came over. You brought me ice cream when I cried after therapy. You knelt beside me and said, “You’re stronger than all of us.”

All those words… you never said. All those hands… they never touched me. All of it—I gave you. The truth was quiet. Filthy. When someone came to visit, I disappeared. Not because you told me to. You didn’t have to. Your eyes did the job. You’re not a sister. You’re the shame that walks.

One time, I lingered in the hallway too long. I heard laughter. I convinced myself it was from the TV. Told myself you weren’t laughing at me. But then I heard your voice. “She looks like a mistake.”

That night, I threw up into my pillow. Quietly. So, no one would hear. I bled without wounds. And the next day, I drew us walking side by side again. My disability didn’t scream. But it breathed. It breathed through my posture, my steps, my silences. For you, that was enough. Enough to hate me. Because I existed. Because I didn’t give up. I reminded you that surviving was possible. And you didn’t know how.

You hated every success I had. You rejoiced in every stumble. If I told you I was in love, you told everyone, mocked me, made a joke out of it. I felt shame. And still, when we were alone, you made coffee and offered me a cigarette. And I thought—maybe you were finally my sister. Maybe that was our moment. Over coffee and smoke, I felt safe enough to tell you everything. And I did.

But it always came back biting. As soon as our mom walked in from work, you’d say: “Did you know she smoked today?” with a smirk, like you couldn’t wait to drag me down, to prove I was bad, small, less. You fed off it. Every time I opened up, it became another broom you used to sweep me off your stage. And I kept falling for it. Again, and again. Hoping this time would be different. In your games, I was worthy—because my love for you made me surrender myself on repeat. So, I made you what I needed.

First to hold my hand. Than to teach me how to stand. And to protect me when someone hurt me.

Reality?

I once fell down the stairs. Twisted my ankle. My brace snapped. I screamed. You walked past me like I wasn’t there. In my notebooks, you picked me up. Because that lie kept me breathing.

I remember one winter. The yard was covered in snow, everything white and quiet. I watched you through the window. Playing with friends. Laughing. I stood inside, in pajamas, curled next to the heater. You didn’t glance my way. But I imagined you bursting in, tugging my hand, shouting: “Come out, you won’t break!”

I didn’t go outside. Didn’t want to ruin the picture. Later, I drew it anyway. And in my drawing—we were building a snowman together. That’s how I healed what was killing me. That’s how I built my fairytale.

People say sisters are best friends. They don’t talk about when your sister is your first bully. When you look at her like a defect. When your silence tells her she was a mistake. Once, you told someone I wasn’t your real sister.

“A half-mistake,” you said.

I laughed. Pretended it was a joke. Like I wasn’t the kid who lay awake that night wondering which half should disappear. And still, I drew you wings the next day.

I can’t tell you I hate you. Truth is, I hate the version I made up. Because of you, I waited for apologies that never came. I defended you in my mind. I said, “She’s just going through things.” By saying that, I dimmed myself. For years. I called your silence shame. Your insults fear. Your cruelty—weakness, not choice. I gave you every excuse a child gives to someone who breaks them. Because the alternative—that my sister didn’t want me—was unbearable. So, I survived by lying to myself every day.

Why am I writing this now?

Because yesterday someone asked if I had a sister. And for the first time in my life, I said: “No. Not a real one.” And that was the most honest sentence I’ve ever spoken.

Because you exist. You have a body, a name. You breathe somewhere. Maybe you still walk like the world owes you something. But you were never my sister. The one in my stories? She was real. She was strength. She was fiction.

Today, I walked. Without help. I thought of you. Not the real you. The one I made up. And for the first time, I felt no pain. No sadness. Just silence. Because I buried you. Where you belong. In fiction.

I’m thousands of miles away now. With my husband. With my children. And still, I hear—I’m the excuse for your failures, the reason behind your every bad choice. I’m the shadow cast over your life simply because I breathe. And yet, I don’t let myself hate you. I let myself to love you.

Even if you never existed.