I nearly lost my younger sister—and only then did I realize how much I loved her.
I was just ten years old when I first truly grasped what it meant to grow up. This understanding didn’t come from a quiet family chat, a lesson at school, or even from a book. It struck through the fear, pain, and horror of the thought that I might lose my sister. My Chloe.
Like many older children, it all started with a sense of unfairness. I think many girls who have to look after younger siblings will understand me. The constant tasks, the reproaches: “You’re older, you should be responsible,” “We’ll be out for a bit—keep an eye on Chloe.” I felt like I was being used as an unpaid nanny, deprived of childhood, games, and freedom.
Chloe was five at the time. She was full of energy, always wanting something, always trailing after me. I longed to spend just one evening with my friends. We planned to watch a movie, brought popcorn and soda—set up comfort just like in a real cinema. And, of course, I completely forgot that I was supposed to watch over my sister.
Half an hour hadn’t passed when a loud thud came from the next room. I jumped up, my heart racing. Bursting into the room, I saw the bookshelf knocked over. Chloe lay beside it, sobbing and holding her leg. Later, it turned out to be a severe sprain and a bruise, thankfully not a fracture. She had climbed up the shelf to get a book from the top.
That evening, my parents gave me a serious telling-off. Tears, shouting, reproaches: “You didn’t watch her!”, “She could’ve been seriously hurt!” I clenched my fists and loathed all those words. I wanted to scream: “I didn’t ask for a sister! I didn’t ask to be the oldest!”
But everything changed a few months later.
Summer arrived, and we were invited by relatives to a holiday in Australia—it was like a fairy tale for us. The heat, the exotic nature, kangaroos, strange plants—I absorbed it all with awe. Even Chloe and I seemed to get along a bit better.
One evening, we were walking around the hotel grounds. Everything was calm and quiet. Chloe walked ahead, gently brushing her hand against the shrubs, just like she loved doing back home in our park. And suddenly—a scream. Sharp and piercing. I turned—and saw a snake. Small, black and red, it quickly vanished into the grass. Chloe stood frozen, and within seconds, she started to sway.
On her calf—two small, but deep puncture marks. A bite.
Staff quickly gathered. Our parents rushed over within a minute. Mum was crying, and dad turned visibly pale. A doctor arrived. He treated the wound, applied a tourniquet, tried to extract the venom. But he warned immediately: “This is serious. Very. It’s a poisonous bite. We need to get her to a hospital right away and administer antivenom.”
Chloe was rushed away in an ambulance. I sat there hugging myself, numb with terror.
At the hospital, doctors explained that an urgent blood transfusion and serum were necessary. But my sister had a rare blood type—AB+. Finding donors was difficult. Our parents were not a match due to their recent bout of flu. The doctor pursed his lips and said, “It’s down to you. But she’s only ten…”
I didn’t let them 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 the girl who was angry about being made to care for her sister. I understood that if anything happened to Chloe, I would never forgive myself.
In that moment, I grew up. Beyond my years.
The procedure was over quickly. Nurses reassured me, mum held my hand, dad gently stroked my head. It felt like the world had shrunk to a single desire: to save Chloe.
Two days later, she started improving. Her cheeks gained color, her eyes began to sparkle. The doctors said, “You have a strong girl.” And I thought, “No, she’s not the strong one. I became strong.”
We spent the rest of our holiday in the hospital room. It didn’t matter. The important thing was—she was alive.
Many years have passed since then. Chloe and I have grown up. But those days are forever etched in my memory. It was then I realized: a sister isn’t a burden or an obstacle. She’s a part of you. Your blood, your soul. And you’re ready to do anything for her.
Now, we’re not just sisters. We’re best friends. We teach our children what we’ve learned: don’t wait for trouble to realize who’s important to you. Don’t put off hugs, kind words, support.
But alas, life is such that we often recognize true values only after experiencing pain. The key is not to forget the lesson. The key is to preserve love. And to be there. Always.
