I was seven when my world ended—my parents died suddenly, and I woke up in a hospital bed alone. My older sister, Amelia, was only twenty-one, but she became everything to me: mother, sister, protector. She gave up her own life plans, worked two jobs, helped with school, and cared for me through every scrape, heartbreak, and milestone, never dating or building a life of her own.

When I finally married and moved out, Amelia visited every day. At first, it felt comforting, but over time, it became overwhelming. One afternoon, exhausted and suffocated, I snapped, telling her to go start her own life and let me breathe. The words hit her hard; she nodded quietly and left.

Weeks turned into months without a word. I told myself she was angry and needed space, but guilt ate at me constantly. I missed her and couldn’t shake the feeling of having pushed her away after all she had sacrificed.

One rainy morning, unable to hold back any longer, I drove to her flat, determined to see her and try to repair the distance that had grown between us.