I nearly lost my younger sister — and only then did I realize how much I love her
I was just ten years old when I first truly understood what it meant to be grown-up. This realization didn’t come from a quiet family discussion, or a lesson at school, or even a book. It came through fear, pain, and the terrifying thought that I could lose my sister, my Emily.
It all started in a way familiar to many older children, with a sense of injustice. I think many girls who have to look after their younger siblings will understand me. Constant responsibilities, endless remarks: “You’re older, you should,” “Your dad and I are going out — keep an eye on Emily.” I felt like I was being used as a free babysitter, robbed of my childhood, play, and freedom.
Emily was five at the time. She was a bundle of energy, always wanting something, always tagging along behind me. I dreamed of spending at least one evening with my friends. We had planned a movie night, brought popcorn and juice — it was all set up like a real cinema. And, of course, I completely forgot that I was supposed to be watching my sister.
Half an hour hadn’t even passed when a loud thud came from the next room. I jumped up, my heart pounding. Rushing into the room, I saw the knocked-over bookshelf. Emily was lying beside it, sobbing, holding her leg. It turned out to be a severe sprain and bruising — thankfully, no break. She had just tried to climb the shelf to reach a book on the top.
That evening, my parents really let me have it. Tears, yelling, reproaches: “You weren’t watching!”, “She could have been seriously hurt!” I clenched my fists and hated all those words. I wanted to scream, “I didn’t ask for a sister! I didn’t ask to be the eldest!”
But everything changed a couple of months later.
Summer came, and we were invited by relatives to go on holiday abroad. Our family traveled to New Zealand — it was like a fairy tale for us. The heat, the exotic sights, the kiwis, strange plants — I absorbed it all with wonder. Even with Emily, we seemed to get along a bit better.
One evening, we were walking around the hotel grounds. Everything was calm and quiet. Emily was wandering ahead, gently running her hand along the bushes, like she loved to do at home in our local park. And suddenly — a scream. Sharp, piercing. I turned around — and saw a snake. Small, black and red, quickly disappearing into the grass. Emily stood frozen, and within seconds she started to sway.
On her leg were two small but deep marks. A bite.
Staff rushed over. Our parents arrived in a minute. Mum was in tears, Dad was visibly pale. A doctor came running. He treated the wound, applied a tourniquet, tried to draw out the venom. But he said immediately, “This is dangerous. Very. A poisonous bite. We need to get her to the hospital and administer the antidote urgently.”
Emily was taken away in an ambulance. I sat, hugging myself tightly, not feeling my hands or feet. I was torn apart by fear.
At the hospital, doctors explained that she needed an urgent blood transfusion and serum. But my sister has a rare blood type — AB+. Finding donors was challenging. Our parents couldn’t donate as they had recently battled the flu. The doctor pursed his lips and said, “Only one option remains. But, the girl is ten…”
I didn’t let him finish. I stood up and said:
— I’m ready.
I didn’t know how the procedure would go, and I was scared. But I was no longer that girl angry about being asked to babysit her sister. I understood — if anything happened to Emily, I would never forgive myself.
In that moment, I grew up beyond my years.
The procedure went quickly. Nurses comforted me, Mum held my hand, Dad stroked my hair. It seemed the world had shrunk to one single desire: to save Emily.
Two days later, she was better. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes began to shine. The doctors said, “You have a strong girl.” And I thought, “No, she’s not the strong one. I’ve become strong.”
We spent the rest of the holiday in the hospital ward. It didn’t matter. The most important thing was she was alive.
Many years have passed since then. Emily and I have grown up. But those days remain forever in my memory. That was when I understood: a sister is not a burden, not a hindrance. She’s a part of you. She’s your blood, your soul. And for her, you’re ready to do anything.
Now, we’re not just sisters. We’re best friends. We teach our children what we learned ourselves: don’t wait for a disaster to recognize who is dear to you. Don’t postpone hugs, kind words, or support.
But unfortunately, life is such that we only recognize true values once we’ve been through pain. The main thing is not to forget the lesson. The main thing is to preserve love. And to be there. Always.
