I always despised my older sister. That truth sat in my chest like a stone, heavy and immovable.
To me, she was everything I didn’t want to become—uneducated, constantly tired, smelling faintly of bleach and cheap soap. She worked as a cleaner, scrubbing other people’s messes, counting coins at the end of every month, worrying about bills. When friends asked about her, I avoided the topic. When classmates talked about ambitious siblings, I stayed silent.
She was five years older, yet somehow decades behind in my eyes.
I was the “smart one,” the one teachers praised, the one with potential. University. A respectable career. A future of books and offices, not disinfectant and trash bags.
She never argued. Never defended herself. She just smiled, quietly, tiredly—and kept going.
The day my university acceptance letter arrived, my phone buzzed nonstop. Friends, relatives, classmates. Then her name appeared.
She called, her voice warm and proud.
“I knew you could do it. I’m so happy for you.”
A wave of ugly emotions rose—pride, shame, 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.”
A pause. Then quietly:
“Oh… okay. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”
She hung up.
I didn’t apologize. I told myself she deserved it. That her choices weren’t my responsibility.
Three months ago, she died.
The call came early. I remember staring at the wall while my aunt spoke. My sister. Gone. No goodbye. No chance to fix things.
At the funeral, the grief was suffocating. Coworkers spoke of her kindness, how she stayed late helping others, never complaining. I replayed our last conversation. My words. My cruelty.
After the service, my aunt pulled me aside. Her eyes were red, but her voice steady:
“It’s time you knew the truth.”
Confused, I listened.
“Your sister made the biggest sacrifice of her life for you,” she said. “Your grandmother left an inheritance—enough for one of you to study and build a future. Only one.”
My chest tightened.
“Your sister was accepted to a prestigious law school,” my aunt continued. “She could have gone. She could have been a lawyer.”
I froze.
“But she declined,” my aunt said softly. “She decided you would use that money instead. She believed in you completely.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“She never got a proper education or good job because she wanted you to have it all. She forbade anyone from telling you, so you wouldn’t feel pressured or guilty. She carried your success like it was her own.”
I sank into a chair, shaking.
I cried for days—not quiet tears, but violent, choking sobs. Every memory replayed with new meaning. Her tired smiles. Her silence. Her pride when I succeeded.
And my words.
“Go clean toilets.”
Now, every casebook I open, every lecture I attend, I think of her. I am becoming the lawyer she never had the chance to be—not because I’m brilliant, but because she chose me.
I can never apologize. I can never tell her I understand.
All I can do is live a life worthy of her sacrifice—and never forget that the person I once looked down on was the one who lifted me the highest.
