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 grasped what it means to be grown-up. This realization didn’t come during a quiet family talk, at school, or even after reading a book. It came through fear, pain, and the terrifying thought that I could lose my sister, my sweet Emily.
Like many older children, it began with a sense of injustice. I think a lot of girls who have to look after younger siblings understand this feeling. Constant tasks and rebukes: “You’re older, you have to,” “We’ll be out for a while – keep an eye on Emily.” I felt like I was used as a free babysitter, deprived of my childhood, my games, my freedom.
Emily was five at the time. She was restless, always wanting something and constantly following me around. I longed for an evening with just my friends. We planned a movie night with popcorn and juice, creating a cozy cinema-like atmosphere. And of course, I completely forgot that I was supposed to be watching my sister.
It couldn’t have been more than thirty minutes before a loud crash came from the next room. I jumped up, heart pounding. Rushing in, I saw a fallen cabinet. Emily lay beside it, sobbing and clutching her leg. Later, it turned out to be a severe sprain and a bruise, thankfully not a fracture. She had tried climbing up to get a book from the top shelf.
That evening my parents gave me a real talking-to. Tears, shouts, accusations: “You didn’t watch her!” “She could have been killed!” I clenched my fists, hating 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 arrived, and relatives invited us on a holiday abroad. We went as a family to Australia, which felt like a fairy tale to us. The heat, the exoticism, kangaroos, strange plants—I soaked it all in with amazement. Even Emily and I seemed to get along a bit better.
One evening, we were walking around the hotel grounds. Everything was calm and quiet. Emily walked ahead, gently touching the bushes, just like she loved to do at home in our park. And suddenly—screams. Sharp, piercing. I turned around and saw a snake. Small, black and red, it swiftly disappeared into the grass. Emily stood frozen, and within moments, began to sway.
On her calf were two small but deep punctures. A bite.
The staff gathered. Our parents rushed over in a minute. Mum cried, and Dad turned pale. A doctor arrived. He treated the wound, applied a tourniquet, and tried to extract the venom. But he said immediately, “This is dangerous. Very. The bite is venomous. She needs to get to a hospital urgently for antivenom.”
Emily was taken away in an ambulance. I sat there hugging myself tight, unable to feel my arms or legs. I was torn apart by fear.
At the hospital, the doctors explained she needed an urgent blood transfusion and antivenom serum. But Emily had a rare blood type—AB+. Donors were hard to find. Our parents weren’t suitable: they’d recently had the flu. The doctor pursed his lips and said, “There’s only you left. But she’s just ten…”
I didn’t let them finish. I stood up and said, “I’m ready.”
I didn’t know what the procedure involved, and I was scared. But I was no longer the girl angry about being made to care for her sister. I understood—if anything happened to Emily, I’d never forgive myself.
In that moment, I grew up. Far beyond my years.
The procedure was quick. Nurses comforted me, mum held my hand, and dad stroked my head. My world had shrunk to one single wish: save Emily.
Two days later, she was better. Her cheeks grew rosier, and 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 the holiday in a hospital room. It didn’t matter. The main thing was: she was alive.
Many years have passed since then. Emily and I have grown up. But those days remain etched in my memory. It was then that I understood: a sister isn’t a burden or a hindrance. She’s a part of you. She’s your blood, your soul. And for her, you’re willing to do anything.
Now we’re not just sisters. We’re best friends. We teach our children what we learned: don’t wait for misfortune to realize who’s important to you. Don’t put off hugs, kind words, or support.
But sadly, life is such that we often understand true values only through pain. The main thing is not to forget the lesson. The main thing is to keep love alive. And always be there. Always.
