I don’t really remember when I first started wanting my sister to love me. I just know I’ve always felt it. It wasn’t just something I hoped for. It was something I needed. Like if I could just get that one thing, maybe everything we went through would feel a little less heavy. We went through hell together. Our stepdad abused us, and our mom let it happen. No one protected us. There were no bedtime stories, no “I love you”s, and no safety. We didn’t go to school like other kids. We didn’t really even have each other. But I used to think if we just stuck together, we could survive it.
She’s older than me, but I always felt like I was the one protecting her. I would try to take both the physical and emotional hits. When we were in the orphanage, I looked after her. I’d give her my favorite stuff just to make her smile. I stayed quiet when she was mean to me because I thought that if I was good enough, patient enough, or kind enough, maybe she’d finally love me back. But she never did.
There’s one night that’s stuck in my head more than anything else. We were living in yet another foster home after the adoption fell apart. It was dark, and the hallway light kept flickering. We had just fought again. I don’t even remember what it was about. I followed her out of the room, desperate to make things right.
“I’m your sister,” I told her. My voice was shaking. “Why do you hate me so much? What did I do?”
She stopped and turned around, looked me dead in the face and said, “You ruined my life. You’re not my sister. I don’t want a sister like you.”
And just like that, everything in me kind of shut down. I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. My heart felt like it collapsed inside my chest. And the worst part is that I believed her. I actually believed I had ruined her life just by existing. She’s said worse things since then. She even told me she wished I was dead. She hurt me not just with words but physically too. And still, I forgave her every single time. I kept hoping she’d change or that something I did would finally be enough.
I tried to hold onto anything that could prove she cared. I saved the broken little things she gave me. I replayed our conversations in my head, hoping I missed something, some sign she didn’t really hate me. I just wanted her to see me. I wanted her to care. I still don’t even know why it mattered that much, but it did. It still does. When we got adopted in 2016, the new mom asked who wanted their own room and who wanted to share. I stayed quiet. I waited for my sister to choose first, just like always. Her comfort always came before mine.
But no matter what I did, she never picked me. It still stings when I see sisters being close, laughing, hugging, and tagging each other in TikToks or Instagram stories. I look at them and wonder, “what’s it like to have that?” Because for me, that kind of love has always felt out of reach.
And this is the truth that hurts the most: I love my sister more than she will ever love me.
Learning that she has fetal alcohol syndrome helped me understand her a little more. Her brain works differently. She processes things in her own way. Her trauma runs deep. I get it. But understanding that doesn’t make it easier. It doesn’t erase the pain of growing up next to someone who hated me for being there.
People always say, “Family loves you unconditionally.” But what happens when they don’t? What happens when the one person who should have been your safe place becomes the one who hurts you the most? I still don’t really have an answer. How did I deal with not getting the one thing I wanted most? Some days, I didn’t. Some days, it crushed me. I cried by myself, wondering what was wrong with me. Why was I so easy to hate? Why didn’t even my own sister want me?
But eventually, I stopped chasing her. I stopped trying to earn her love. I started loving myself, even when it didn’t feel real at first. I focused on the people who actually saw me and treated me with care. I started to believe that maybe her hate wasn’t about me. Maybe it was about her own pain, the kind she didn’t know how to carry. Still, a small part of me, that tiny, foolish part, hopes and wants her to look at me one day and say, “I’m sorry. I do love you.”
But I’m also scared that if she ever does, it’ll be too late and that she’ll only realize it once I’m gone. And love after death doesn’t help. It doesn’t heal anything. It just leaves more damage. So I carry this with me — the pain, the wanting, the love I know I’ll probably never get back. I carry it like a scar I’ve learned to live with. But it’s also proof that I tried. Because I did. I tried harder than anyone ever should’ve had to. And even if she never loves me, I still love her anyway.
