Twelve years younger than me, my sister was born at a time when my parents’ dreams for a better life became more ambitious. Although we owned a house in a middle-class, American neighborhood, my siblings and I rarely spent time with them. The upkeep of our American dream quite literally came at a high price. As the oldest sibling, I took on the parental role before my sister was a one year old. Much like a new mom, I constantly worried about my sister and relied on parenting blogs or magazines to calm my concerns which ranged from her lack of time with my parents to her speech being delayed. Since middle school, my decisions revolved around what was best for my sister. Even decisions concerning my own education were dependent on her. I chose to attend a zone high school because it meant I could easily drop off and pick her up from a neighbor’s house. When it was time for college, I was old enough to take my sister on doctor appointments and attend parent teacher conferences without being told that a parent needed to be present. As a result, living on campus was out of the question.

Although much of my youth was spent shouldering my sister’s upbringing, I do not resent my parents or my sister. My parents worked hard to raise us. It seemed only fair to help out with the things they did not have time to do. Raising my sister, gave me a new perspective on life. Her needs are more important than my own. Her pain is my pain and at times it feels worse than my own. She is now nine years old and I still feel responsible for her own actions as well as for the type of influence she receives from me.