I was the only one. I had all my own clothes — my colorful leggings, sequined Justice shirts and fluffy coats. I had all the attention and love from my parents, kisses from my grandparents and gifts from my uncles and aunts. I had my own room, my own world — spaces dedicated to my stuffed animals, a purple room to my liking and floral bedding that was perfect for me and only me.
But then, I wasn’t the only one anymore. Suddenly, there were two.
When I first heard my mom was pregnant, I was horrified. As a five-year-old, my world was about to collapse. And when I found out the baby was going to be a girl, it was even worse. Was I not enough? Was I not perfect? Why did they need another girl? Would I be replaced? I had never shared anything in my life — how could I share my world with another tiny human who might even look like me?
Nine months of fear passed, and my nightmare arrived on July 27, 2011. I was certain it was the worst day of my life: my little sister’s birthday.
When she arrived, I was scared. My parents had been taken from me for a whole day, and I worried this was just the beginning. What if this little monster took them away forever? These thoughts consumed me as I waited to visit her. Finally, it was time to face my fears.
I knocked on the hospital door with my tiny hands. The door opened, and I was greeted by the sterile smell of hand sanitizer and the stark whiteness of the room. The bare atmosphere clashed with the rage I felt inside. My world was falling apart.
Then I saw my parents and, for a moment, I felt comfort. But then my eyes shifted to the small creature in their arms.
The baby.
My first thought? Okay, fine. She was cute. Actually, she was incredibly cute. She had the tiniest button nose, perfectly round cheeks with a hint of pink and the smallest fingers and toes. I compared my hand to hers. How could something so small and so innocent exist? She was beautiful.
“Do you want to hold her?” my parents asked.
I wanted to say no. Holding her would mean surrendering to her cuteness, admitting that my parents might love her as much as they loved me — or maybe even more. It would mean accepting her.
But how could I say no? She wasn’t a monster. She was calm, even peaceful. Her little chest rose and fell as she slept, and when she opened her rich brown eyes to meet my hazel ones, my heart softened.
“Yes,” I said.
I took her into my arms, cradling her small body. She was so delicate, as light as my Build-A-Bear, McStuffy. Her light brown hair matched mine, but hers was impossibly soft. I hated to admit it, but she was perfect, and she was my sister.
July 27, 2011, was the day everything changed. The Soneta family now had two girls. But was it the worst day of my life? No.
Now I’m 18 and my sister is 13. A lot has changed since then. Half of my closet mysteriously disappears every time I check it, only to reappear when I visit hers. Since I left for college, my room has slowly been taken over by bits and pieces of her stuff.
Our dynamic has shifted, too. Gone are the days of playing with Beanie Boos, baking treats that were mostly inedible and watching the first two minutes of scary movies before switching to a Disney classic. Now, our relationship is built on daily FaceTime calls, keeping up with her life through social media and the occasional visit home.
But one thing hasn’t changed: my love for her.
She still embodies the “monstrous” traits I once thought she had as a baby — though now they shine through in the form of teenage sass. Yet with every moment we spend together, I am reminded to cherish every moment — whether it is a quick call or a weekend back home.
It is easy to forget to reach out to family and friends back home when college life is consumed by classes, finals, and endless cups of coffee. But now, I have made a point to schedule time each day just to talk and catch up with my sister. She reminds me of how simple life was in middle school, shares her latest clothing hauls and drops all the drama I missed from back home. Honestly, she’s the best gift I have ever received.