I am six years old. At the peak of my reign over the house, the center of attention after every jumble of words came out of my mouth. You always hated it, but everyone knew it was true. Any tear I shed would end up with mom or dad scooping me up, telling me I was ok and me, eying you up and down, knowing you wouldn’t get the same treatment. We were a normal family, we did everything together. In the mornings, you and I would sit at the counter waiting for the food mom and dad would be making in the kitchen around us, and at night, we would sit at the dinner table laughing and smiling at every conversation. 

But, things have been different since mom left. My control over the house began to dwindle and you were now allowed to tell me things like “stop crying, I didn’t even touch you” or “what are you going to do, run to mom? You can’t.” Breakfast came to us slower and dinner had an empty chair. I remember crying the first night it happened, you came over and told me “stop being a crybaby, she’ll come back”. What a nice sentiment, in such a rude way. But that’s how it was now, you told me off like you were trying to assert your dominance as the older sister now that mom wasn’t here.

I hadn’t seen mom for a couple of weeks, all I remember about the day she left is that she told us she would be back the next day. But, once the next night came, I realized she wouldn’t be back that day. However, I heard dad talking on the phone that night, something about the hospital being “too much” for me. But, today was different. I would finally get to see her.  

Cream colored the halls and fluorescent lights made the place feel cramped–like there was no escape from the doom of these halls. The white and blue tiles weaved together to form the path to room 817. Inside, the sun peeked through the paneled shutters, a curtain pushed back, and three chairs squished together in the claustrophobic room she was in. Bunches of tubes snaked their way around the bed, linking themselves to bags with clear liquids. There was a constant beep beep beep that filled the air. Lines are constantly moving on a screen with random numbers scattered throughout it. But the weirdest thing is that there was a stranger lying in bed. 

Tears started to muffle my ears, where was mom? My sister's voice surrounded me, “Zara, stop being such a crybaby, mom’s right there.” But what she didn’t get is that someone with tubes linked to her nose and pipes leading their way to the middle of her arms was in that bed. There was some resemblance, or at least I thought there was after dad told me who it was supposed to be. But, mom didn’t look like that. I knew what she looked like. Glowing, smiley, and full of life, not dull, exasperated, and dreary like the person lying in bed. This wasn’t the person I knew. There was a stranger lying in that bed. 

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Whenever we would go on playdates with friends and I told mom stuff on the car ride back, you always would get upset at me after. You’d pull us into the jack and jill bathroom that connected our rooms and tell me off. “You shouldn’t talk about people and what they do, mom doesn’t need to know everything.” But, that was what I had always been taught, and when have I ever listened to anything you said? To tell mom anything and everything. So, upon hearing your angry voice, I went to mom. And told her what you had told me. That night, you labeled me as a “tattle tale”, something that stuck with the name “crybaby” for years.

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I am 15 and now you’re 17. Nothing’s changed, albeit the nicknames, slightly. I no longer am at the peak of my reign in the house. Instead, it seems that this year is finally yours to be at the top. During your senior year, all of the smotherings fall upon you before you embark on your next journey away from us. Since I was older now, if I told mom anything, I was no longer a “tattletale” because the only thing that would happen is both you and I getting into trouble. Mom and dad don’t make us breakfast in the mornings anymore. In fact, whenever they do it must be for a special occasion. We were still a normal family, but we no longer needed to do everything together. But, even though that may be true, it’s still weird with mom gone again. 

A sense of familiarity and discomfort filled the air as we made our way through yet another dreary ICU floor. The dull atmosphere is flooded with bright fluorescent lights that guide us on our way to her room. As we push open her room door, the light from the hall peers in. The sound of staggered breathing echoed throughout the room with the beeping of heart rate monitors breaking the silence every few seconds. Bags of painkillers were scattered next to the bed, all with different tubes that were weaved around the body in the bed. This was reality. The empty chair had made its way back into our lives. Mom has cancer. 

Throughout the time mom was in the hospital, it made me realize what polar opposites we were. Though I’ve known long before, because of things like me liking olives and you hating them or how different the shows we watched were, it was weird seeing it play out in a hospital. The last thing you wanted to do was be in that tiny room, while the only thing I wanted to do was be in that room. Over the three weeks, you checked up on me. You didn’t take your reign of the house as a tyrannical reign, you were gentle. Something I’ve never seen you do. You’d come to my room and lie down silently, just to tell me that you weren’t going anywhere. You’ve always been my big sister, but this time you were a third parent, someone that I could rely on for the period while mom was away.