I nearly lost my little 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 lesson didn’t come from a quiet family chat, a lesson at school, or even from a book. It came from the fear and pain of thinking I might lose my sister, my little Daisy.
Like many older siblings, my journey began with a sense of injustice. I think many girls who find themselves looking after younger siblings will sympathize. Constant chores, constant scolding: “You’re older, you should,” “Your dad and I will be out—keep an eye on Daisy.” I felt like I was being used as a free babysitter, robbed of my childhood, my games, my freedom.
Daisy was only five at the time. She was always on the move, always wanting something, always following me around. Meanwhile, I longed for an evening with my friends. We planned to watch a movie, brought some popcorn, and juice—set up the living room like a real cinema. And of course, I completely forgot that I was supposed to be watching Daisy.
Less than half an hour passed before a dull thud echoed from the next room. I jumped up, my heart pounding. When I rushed in, I saw the cabinet toppled over. Daisy was lying beside it, sobbing, clutching her leg. Later, we found out she had a bad sprain and a bruise, but fortunately, it wasn’t a fracture. She had tried to climb up to get a book from the top shelf.
That evening, my parents were furious with me. There were tears, shouting, and accusations: “You didn’t take care!” “She could have been seriously hurt!” I clenched my fists, hating every word. 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 relatives invited us abroad for a holiday. We went as a family to Australia—it felt like a dream come true. The heat, the exotic wildlife, the kangaroos, the strange plants—I drank it all in with wonder. Even Daisy and I seemed to be getting along a little better.
One evening, we were walking together around the hotel grounds. Everything was calm and quiet. Daisy was ahead of me, gently running her fingers over the bushes as she liked to do at home in our local park. Suddenly, a scream cut through the air. I turned and saw a snake. Small, black, and red, it quickly vanished into the grass. Daisy stood frozen, and moments later, began to stagger.
On her calf were two small, but deep puncture marks. A bite.
Staff rushed over. Our parents came racing within moments. Mum cried, and Dad turned pale. A doctor hurried over. He treated the wound, applied a tourniquet, and tried to suck out the venom. But he warned us: “This is dangerous. Very. The bite is venomous. We need to get her to a hospital and administer antivenom immediately.”
Daisy was taken away by ambulance. I sat, hugging myself, my whole body numb with fear.
At the hospital, the doctors explained that a blood transfusion and antivenom were urgently needed. But Daisy had a rare blood type—AB+. Donors were hard to find. Neither of our parents could help; they had been unwell with the flu recently. The doctor pressed his lips together and said, “There’s only one option left. But she’s only ten…”
I didn’t let him finish. I stood up and said, “I’m ready.”
I didn’t know what the procedure would entail; I was scared. But I was no longer the girl who was angry for being made to look after her sister. I understood—if something happened to Daisy, I would never forgive myself.
At that moment, I grew up in ways beyond my years.
The procedure was over quickly. The nurses comforted me, Mum held my hand, and Dad gently stroked my head. It felt like my entire existence was reduced to a single desire: to save Daisy.
Two days later, she improved. Her cheeks turned pink again, and her eyes began to shine. The doctors said, “You have a strong girl.” But I thought, “No, she isn’t the strong one. I became the strong one.”
We spent the rest of the holiday in that hospital room. It didn’t matter. The main thing was that she was alive.
Many years have passed since then. Daisy and I have both grown up. But those days remain etched in my memory. That was when I realized: a sister is not a burden or a nuisance. She is a part of you, your own flesh and blood. And you are willing to do anything for her.
Nowadays, we are not just sisters. We are best friends. We teach our own children what we learned ourselves: do not wait for disaster to recognize who is important to you. Do not delay hugs, kind words, or support.
But sadly, life is such that we often only see its true values after experiencing pain. The key is not to forget the lesson. The key is to preserve that love. And to always be there. Always.
