I was two months shy of my fifth birthday when my sister was born. That day I became much more than a big sister, I became a little mother who’s sole responsibility was to protect and love. I remember the day my dad snuck me into the hospital to get a peek at her behind the glass of the nursery, and the “big sister” sticker the nurse gave me when we got caught. I remember how small she was, how her jet black hair stuck out in all directions, and how her wide dark blue eyes seemed to recognize me when I looked at her. Every baby picture taken of her includes me either holding her myself or tenderly holding her arm or leg while someone else holds her. I had wanted a sibling so desperately, and the pride and love I felt for her were overwhelming.

As she grew her personality started showing itself, and it was a very spirited, strong-willed one. She didn’t quietly play dolls with me, or like to read, or enjoy dressing up and playing house. No, she would rather play with balls and cars, run outside, ride bikes, and make a lot of noise. We were different, very different. We could yell, scream and argue with each other, but if anyone else tried to do it we always jumped to the defense of our sister. I remember the day I waited impatiently outside of my Catholic grade school for my grandma and sister to pick me up, anxious to show them the tin of candy I had just won in the school raffle, when a group of older kids cornered me and took my candy. When my grandma pulled up and saw the tears running down my cheeks and I explained what had happened, my sister (quite the bully herself at times) asked me what I did to retaliate. “I told the kids that I would go and tell Sister (as in the prinicpal who was also a nun), but they just laughed and said go ahead and tell your sister, and your brother, we don’t care who you tell; we’re taking your candy.” Brittany looked surprised at this and said, “I hope you told them that you don’t have a brother.”

Even though we didn’t have a lot in common, which resulted in a number of disagreements over the years, I was her protector and there were many times that I took the blame so she didn’t have to deal with the punishment. I just couldn’t stand to see her hurting. The first time someone broke her heart I cried just as hard as she did because I knew her pain and I hated that she had to feel it.

I remember the tears she cried when I left for college.

I remember the way her eyes sparkled with pride as she put the veil on me right before my wedding.

When our grandmother had a stroke 5 years ago, I remember Brittany asking me to go with her to buy the song “I’m Already There” by Lonestar. Grandma loved country music, and Brit thought that it would help bring her out of her coma. I went into the room with her and the boombox. I remember seeing my grandma’s toe move, seeing Brittany’s face light up with hope, and seeing it transform to despair when the nurse said it was due to the machine that was keeping her alive. I remember telling myself to be strong so I could hold her up as the rush of pain, grief, and regret overcame us both.

I remember how she cried with me during the pain of birthing Kade, and how she whispered “I’m proud of you” in my ear afterwards.

I remember the look on her face the first time she held both of my children.

I remember her taking Kade’s hand and leading him to a different activity when I was ready to lose it yesterday.

I remember all the times she has been there for me.

I always thought it was my duty as the older sister to watch out for her, to help her, to be there when she needed me, but all the while she was doing the same thing for me. She was my saving grace yesterday when she watched Kade while I took Liv to the doctor’s, helped me get some shopping done, made cookies with Kade and I, stayed to help me get Kade fed and Liv in bed, and most of all kept me company while Kyle was gone all day at work and all night at his holiday party. She knew exactly what I needed, and I thank her from the bottom of my heart.