Chapter 1
Chapter One: Fourteen
The first time someone called me strong, I was fourteen.
I smiled because I thought it was a compliment.
I didn't know that one word would follow me everywhere.
"You're the eldest."
"Your mother is lucky to have you."
"You're so mature for your age."
People said those things with pride, as though they were placing a crown on my head.
What they didn't realize was that the crown was heavy.
I was fourteen.
Fourteen-year-olds were supposed to worry about homework, friendships, and what they wanted for their birthdays.
I worried about keeping the peace at home.
Somehow, everyone mistook my silence for strength.
They didn't know silence was the only thing keeping me from falling apart.
Home was never loud enough for people outside to think something was wrong.
There were no broken plates.
No neighbours calling the police.
No dramatic scenes that made people whisper.
It was the kind of house where life continued as if nothing had happened.
My mother woke up before sunrise every morning.
My stepfather left for work with little more than a quiet goodbye.
My little brother filled the house with laughter, asking a hundred questions before breakfast.
And then there was me.
Always helping.
Always understanding.
Always expected to know what to do.
Nobody asked if I was tired.
Maybe they thought I never got tired.
Maybe I acted too grown.
Or maybe, once you're the first-born daughter, people stop seeing you as a child.
They only see what you can carry.
I loved my little brother more than words could explain.
None of this was his fault.
He deserved every hug, every bedtime story, every patient answer our mother gave him.
Sometimes I'd watch her sit beside him while he struggled with his homework.
She smiled.
She laughed when he got things wrong.
She'd brush his hair back and say,
"It's okay. We'll figure it out together."
I was happy he had that.
I really was.
But somewhere deep inside me, a question always found its way back.
Where was this version of you when I was little?
It wasn't jealousy.
It was grief.
Grief for a childhood I never got to have.
People think grief only comes after someone dies.
They never talk about grieving the love you needed while everyone around you insists you had enough.
I don't blame my mother.
Life wasn't easy for her.
She was trying to survive too.
Sometimes I wonder if she ever realized how much I noticed.
Children notice everything.
We notice the tired sighs.
The broken promises.
The hugs that become less frequent.
The way parents change without realizing their children are changing too.
By the time my little brother came along, my mother had changed.
She smiled more.
She listened more.
She had learned patience.
I was proud of her.
But I couldn't stop wondering why I had met the version of her that was still learning how to survive...
...while my brother met the version that had finally learned how to breathe.
That thought made me feel guilty.
How could I be grateful for my brother and still mourn the childhood I wished I'd had?
Maybe both things could be true.
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I reached beneath my mattress and pulled out a small black notebook.
Nobody knew it existed.
It wasn't just a notebook.
It was the only place where I didn't have to pretend.
I opened to the first page.
My hands trembled as I uncapped my pen.
For a long moment, I stared at the blank paper.
Then I wrote the words that had been living inside me for years.
Maybe the hardest part about being the first-born daughter isn't growing up first...
Maybe it's watching everyone else receive the version of your mother you once prayed for.
I closed the notebook before the tears could stain the page.
Tomorrow, everyone would call me strong again.
And tomorrow...
I'd smile again.
Because that's what strong girls do.
Or at least...
That's what everyone expects.
