She came with two overstuffed suitcases, a laptop bag, and the specific brand of chaos that only an older sister can bring. Her apartment’s plumbing had failed, and my spare room became a temporary refuge. “Just 30 days,” she promised, kicking off her shoes in the hallway. “You’ll barely know I’m here.”
A strange thing happens on a Tuesday night. I find her crying in the kitchen over a bowl of instant ramen. Not loud sobs—the quiet, exhausted leak of an adult who has had a terrible day at work. I do not ask questions. I simply pour myself a bowl, sit across from her, and eat. She says nothing. I say nothing. But the air changes. 30 days ~ life with my sister
At 2:17 AM, she knocks on my bedroom door. She cannot sleep. She admits something she has never told me: that she was jealous of me growing up. Jealous of my freedom, my carelessness, the way I never carried the weight of being the “responsible one.” I sit up in bed, stunned. I always thought she had all the power. She thought I had all the ease. We were both wrong. She came with two overstuffed suitcases, a laptop
I find myself fantasizing about Day 31—the glorious solitude, the empty bathroom counter, the silence. I also notice that I am eating better because she cooks. I am sleeping better because the apartment doesn’t feel empty. I hate that I appreciate her. I hate that I will miss the wet towels. “You’ll barely know I’m here
I leave it there for a week.