The Sister Who Never Was

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

But she was never really there. In reality, my sister locked the door. Her eyes were sharp, lips tight every time I entered the room. My walk, my braces, my struggle - she didn’t see strength. She saw threat. My determination reminded her of what she lacked. And I was a mirror she couldn’t break, so she chose to ignore it. Still, I adored her.

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

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

One time, I lingered in the hallway too long. Heard laughter. I convinced myself it was from the TV. Told myself they weren’t laughing at me. But then I heard her 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 her, that was enough. Enough to hate me. Because I existed. Because I didn’t give up. Because I reminded her that surviving was possible. And she didn’t know how.

She hated every success I had. Rejoiced in every stumble. If I told her I was in love, she’d tell everyone, mock me, make a joke out of it. I felt shame. And still, when we were alone, she’d make coffee and offer me a cigarette. And I’d think - maybe she’s finally my sister. Maybe that was our moment. Over coffee and smoke, I felt safe enough to tell her everything. And I did.

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

The first to hold my hand. The first to teach me how to stand. The first to protect me when someone hurt me. Reality?

I once fell down the stairs. Twisted my ankle. My brace snapped. I screamed. She walked past me like I wasn’t there. In my notebooks, she 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 her through the window. Playing with friends. Laughing. I stood inside, in pajamas, curled next to the heater. She didn’t glance at my way. But I imagined her 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 she looks at you like a defect. When her silence tells you you were a mistake. Once, she told someone I wasn’t her real sister.

“A half-mistake,” she 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 her wings the next day.

I can’t tell you I hate her. Truth is, I hate the version I made up. Because of her, I waited for apologies that never came. Defended her in my mind. Said, “She’s just going through things.” By saying that, I dimmed myself. For years. I called her silence shame. Her insults fear. Her cruelty - weakness, not choice. I gave her every excuse a child gives to someone who breaks them. Because the alternative - that your sister doesn’t want you - 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 she exists. She has a body, a name. She breathes somewhere. Maybe she still walks like the world owes her something. But she was 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 her.

Not the real one. The one I made up. And for the first time, I felt no pain. No sadness.

Just silence. Because I buried her. Where she belongs.

In fiction.

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

I let myself love my sister.

Even if she never existed.