The Oldest’s Burden

I learned early
that love is something you anticipate.

Notice before being told.
Adjust before it becomes a problem.
Apologise for needs you never voiced.

Confusion is treated like defiance.
Asking questions feels like failure.
Silence becomes the safest language.

When I am tired, I am called selfish.
When I am quiet, I am called distant.
When I change, I am told I am no longer myself.

No one asks
what changed me.

I am expected to remember
what everyone needs,
when everyone is fragile,
how to keep the room calm.

There is no room here
for my exhaustion.
Only function.
Only usefulness.

When I falter,
love tightens.
Voices sharpen.
Intent is questioned.

I grieve the version of me
who did not rehearse every sentence,
who did not brace for impact
before speaking.

I grieve how love becomes conditional
the moment I stop performing it correctly.

Everyone wants a sister.
A daughter.
A familiar shape they recognise.

No one wants the cost.

So I remain —
not held,
not understood,
just present enough to be needed.

The oldest learns to survive by becoming invisible. And each day, something in her dies unnoticed.

- Anonymous