As of writing this, the other day was Sarah’s graduation. Everyone cheered, hugged, smiled for photos—celebrating the milestone she’d worked toward. And I smiled too, played the role, nodded in agreement when people gushed about how proud we should all be. But the truth? I wasn’t proud. Or at least, not in the way they expected.
It’s not that I wanted her to fail. It’s not that I wished anything bad on her. But I couldn’t summon that warm, effortless pride because there will always be this piece of me that resents the life she got to have.
She had a childhood—an actual childhood, where she could be careless, free, untouched by responsibility. I didn’t. I was taking care of Mom when she was sick, managing Dad’s anger, holding things together when no one else did. I didn’t get to experiment with teenage rebellion or chase after my own ambitions. I had a job, and that job was survival.
She got to leave, carve out a life, get married, have kids. I stayed. I held everything together. I sacrificed my own years for the sake of keeping things running. And now, at twenty-seven, I’m only just learning what it means to be me. To take up space. To dream without guilt.
So yes, I can say I was happy for her, in the way that a person can acknowledge someone else’s joy. But I can’t say I was proud. Because pride is born from admiration—and how can I admire something that reminds me of everything I lost?
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