Envy or Blessings in April

From a long time ago.

My sister has lead the life I was supposed to live. I am incredibly proud. I hate that it couldn’t be me.

I gave her the best parts of me. I gave her my intelligence, my perseverance, my determination. I taught her how to read with vigor and to appreciate every opportunity that came her way. I failed repeatedly so she wouldn’t have to, so she’d never have a panic attack before a graduate class and want to disappear into space and time just for a moment so she could collect herself and never fall into the abyss. I failed repeatedly so she could be happy, so she would never wish she was anywhere else but where she was.

I never wanted to become my mother. Once I did, I decided my sister would never become me.

Would that be so awful?

My therapist asked me that once. Maybe. Maybe not. But my sister deserved better than to be broken glass, haphazardly placed back together. I made her better. I succeeded.

I regret nothing.

I regret everything.

She said thank you.

My sister is beautiful and confident and will never feel afraid because one of the people she should have trusted the most hurt people she loved or have nightmares that he might come over because she will never have to see him again. She will never have to struggle to apply to colleges or pay for tuition or cry because her parents accused her of being the reason her sister failed first grade. She will be a child for as long as she wants. She will be a kaleidoscope of colors, not broken glass. I will look after her in the way no one looked after me, until my bones are dust in the wind and my name isn’t even a memory in this world.

I wish I could be her.