Elder Daughter
You loved flowers—soft petals in tiny hands, you loved dolls, dressing them in dreams, playing house where everyone was happy and no one ever left.
I loved flowers too—picked them for Ma, careful not to bruise the stem. I loved dolls—lined them up for work, not tea parties. I played house too, but I was the one who returned tired, the one who held the silence when the pretending was done.
"You're my son, not my daughter," they say with a smile that forgets. "Beta, help me with this," Dad calls, and I go—not because I must, but because he leans on me without knowing how much he does. I carry him, quietly. Because I am his daughter, but I have been his son too.
Maa says she's fine. I ask again. She unfolds her list—so long it spills past her lap into every corner of the house. Children. Groceries. Future. Life. I take her hand, not the list. "Sleep," I tell her. "I'll take care of it." Because I am her anchor—her daughter, but also her son.
"Didi!" My name is a door always open. They rush in—questions, stories, shirts that won't tuck in, hair that won't sit still. I pause work, tuck, smooth, nod, smile. Later, when he messes up, I shield him. "Man up," I whisper. "You'll need to be what I've been." Because I am his sister, but I've been his brother too.
They ask what I want—what are my dreams? And I say, a father whose hands don't tremble, a mother whose mind isn't cluttered with worry, a brother who flies because I stood steady...
"But what do you want?"Â they ask again.
And I wonder—maybe when you carry enough, the load begins to shape you. Not into someone bitter—but into someone quietly unbreakable.