Shelf of Some Short

An Older Daughter's Tale

I was her friend, her cousin, a quiet witness to her life. I watched from the sidelines—never brave enough to speak for her, but always there, hoping my silence was enough.

I wonder now, how will you feel when you end this story. Will you be able to answer this simple question: do you feel like her, or do you feel for her, the way I did?

We met when we were far too young to remember, when her father married my aunt and made her part of my family. Even then, she was different—quiet, though not in a way I understood. I assumed it was because she was two years older than me.

It wasn’t until much later that I realized how much she carried in her silences.

As children, I thought her silence meant she saw herself as better than the rest of us. So quiet, so calm—how I envied her. But as time went on and we grew closer, I came to appreciate the special bond we shared. We were almost inseparable, and I often spent countless nights at my aunt's house, thrilled just to be near my closest friend.

I often overlooked the world around me at that time, perhaps too absorbed in my own happiness to notice the struggles of others. One thing stood out, though: on the days I wanted to stay at my aunt’s place and spend more time with the girl, it was always me who had to ask. I’d feel a flicker of confusion at times, unsure why I needed to be the one to make the request.

But she would encourage me, urging me to ask, almost as if my presence was a balm to her discomfort, as if being near my aunt caused her a lingering unease—like a dog awaiting a reprimand from its owner. Sometimes, she would muster the courage to ask herself, but my aunt's response was always the same: a firm “no.”

Yet when I asked, my aunt would give me a warm smile and say, “Yes, you should come more often.” In those moments, I didn’t grasp the weight of it all; my focus was on the laughter we shared, blissfully unaware of the heaviness that lingered in the air.

When her brother was born, everything began to change. I couldn’t tell if he was a blessing or a curse thrust into her life. As he grew, the burden of caring for him shifted increasingly onto her small shoulders. There were times when she wouldn’t be allowed to play with me or anyone else simply because she had to look after him, even when adults were present—my aunt, his mother, included.

I could see the weariness etched on her face, the joy of childhood slowly being replaced by the responsibilities she had to bear. Occasionally, though, she experienced fleeting moments of relief—if you could even call the bare minimum luck. When her father was home instead of off at work, he would put on a front for her, allowing her some precious free time, despite my aunt’s disapproval, which she skillfully masked in front of her husband.

Unfortunately, those moments were few and far between; she could barely ever see her father. I tried to help her when I was around, offering a hand, trying to carve out time for her own enjoyment. I even talked to my aunt about it, hoping for some understanding.

But my aunt never showed gratitude toward the girl, not for taking care of the brother, not for setting the table, not for cleaning up the messes her bratty brother left behind. I felt torn because when I was the one doing those things, I was met with endless praise from my aunt and everyone from the family. It seemed so unfair.

Here was my cousin, drowning in obligations, while I received accolades for merely stepping into the role she had been forced to inhabit. I wanted to speak out for her, to tell my aunt how hard she worked, but the words always stuck in my throat.

All I could do was watch as my friend faded under the weight of it all.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the responsibilities that weighed her down. If she ever messed up—even in the smallest way—she was scolded and belittled, not just by my aunt but also by my grandma and the other aunts. If she forgot to make her bed once, she was labeled lazy and useless. But when I skipped making my bed, it was simply brushed off with laughter—“She’s just a child,” they would say.