My mum says, ‘Do you want a brother or a sister?’ And I say ‘a sister’. Not long after that my mum brings a baby home and it’s you… a brother. Not the sister I wanted. I’m not happy and I resent you – I’m five.
My dad leaves our family when you’re two and I’m seven. You don’t understand, you’re just a baby. But me? I know what’s going on and I’m heartbroken.
My daddy is my life and now all I have is you and my mummy, and I would rather have daddy. You don’t really have a relationship with him after this.
It’s kind of like you never had a dad. When he comes to visit, it’s clear I am his favourite and I feel guilty and kind of smug at the same time.
When you’re three and I’m eight, you get really cute and I kind of start to like you. I remember mum yelling at you, ‘Hey! Get down from there’ and you turning around and being caught with your hand in the biscuit tin. I think that’s cheeky and that you are super fun, and I begin to think maybe a brother isn’t so bad after all.
As you grow, it becomes clear that you’re different. You’re gentle and my mum tucks your shirt into your pants and pulls your socks up to your knees. It makes me angry and I yell at her to ‘stop treating him like a girl’.
All of a sudden I like having a brother – a boy. Someone to boss around. Someone younger than me. All of a sudden, I like you. All of a sudden I want to protect you and I start acting more like a parent – not a sister.