I always hated my older sister, and that feeling weighed heavily on me.
I saw her as someone I never wanted to be—no education, always tired, smelling of cleaning products. She worked as a cleaner, cleaning up after others just to get by. She was always short on money and worried about debts. When people asked about her, I changed the subject. When others talked about successful families, I kept silent.
She was five years older than me, but I felt like she was far behind in life—at least in my eyes.
I was seen as the “smart one.” Teachers praised me and said I had a bright future. People expected me to go to university, get a good job, and live a clean, respectable life—not one filled with cleaning chemicals and trash.
My sister never argued or defended herself. She just smiled, looking tired, and kept working.
When I got accepted into university, everyone congratulated me. Friends, family, even old classmates. Then my sister called.
She sounded happy and proud.
“I knew you could do it,” she said. “I’m so happy for you.”
But instead of feeling grateful, I felt annoyed and full of myself. I didn’t want her support—I wanted her out of my life.
“Don’t bother,” I said harshly. “Just go clean toilets. That’s what you’re good at.”
There was a short silence.
“Oh,” she said softly. “Okay. I just wanted to say I’m proud of you.”
Then she hung up.
I never apologized. I didn’t even think much about it. I told myself she deserved it, that I was just being honest, and that her life wasn’t my problem.
Three months ago, my sister passed away.
The call came early in the morning. I remember staring at the wall while my aunt spoke, barely understanding what she was saying. My sister was gone. Just like that. There was no chance to say goodbye or make things right.
At her funeral, the sadness felt heavy. People I didn’t really know were crying. Her coworkers talked about how kind she was, how she always helped others, stayed late, and never complained.
I stood there feeling empty, replaying our last conversation in my head—remembering the cruel things I had said.
After the service, my aunt took me aside. Her eyes were red, but she spoke calmly.
“It’s time you know the truth,” she said.
I didn’t understand.
She told me my sister had made a huge sacrifice for me. Our grandmother had left money—enough for only one of us to study and have a good future.
Then she told me something that shocked me: my sister had been accepted into a top law school. She could have become a lawyer.
But she gave it up.
She chose to let me use the money instead. She believed in me and thought I deserved the chance more.
I could hardly breathe.
My aunt explained that my sister worked as a cleaner and never had a good education because she wanted me to have those opportunities. She made everyone promise not to tell me. She didn’t want me to feel guilty or pressured. She just wanted me to succeed.
I sat down, shaking.
All those years, my sister had been proud of me—of every exam and every success. She treated my achievements like they were her own.
I cried for days after that. Deep, painful crying that left me exhausted. Every memory changed meaning—her tired smiles, her silence, her pride in me.
And my cruel words came back to me: “Go clean toilets.”
Now I study harder than ever. Every book I open and every class I attend, I think of her. I’m becoming the lawyer she never had the chance to be—not because I’m special, but because she chose me.
I’ll never be able to say sorry to her or tell her I finally understand.
All I can do now is live a life that honors her sacrifice and remember that the person I once looked down on was the one who lifted me the most.