I remember being a child and asking my grandmother how half-siblings worked after hearing a few white kids talk at school. She got irritated and snapped, “We don’t do that!”—as if the concept itself was so rude and offensive, as if acknowledging it would somehow break the illusion of unity. Fast-forward to today, I wish she hadn’t brushed me off like that. Because the truth is, it did matter and what I should have done was asked my mom. It shaped how I saw my family, how I saw myself, and it still lingers in the way I move through life.

Being the oldest comes with an unspoken weight. If you know, you know. The responsibility. The expectation. The way your parents just assume you’ll figure it out while your younger siblings get catered to like they’re fragile, like they can’t handle life the way you’re expected to. I swear, some days it feels like if I gave up today, they’d be taken care of by tomorrow. But me? Who’s checking in? Who’s making sure I’m good?

The other day, my uncle told me he used to get so mad at me for not calling him when I needed help. And all I could think about was: But I made it work. Regardless of all the previous eviction notices on my door, the stress of survival, the nights I had to hold it together when I wanted to break—I still found a way. Because that’s what the oldest does. We don’t get the luxury of waiting to be saved. That’s also something instilled by my mother.

And I don’t know if this part belongs here, but it often crosses my mind. When one of my sisters announced she was having a baby, I was so excited for her. She told me she was planning a dinner for our family and her partner’s family to meet. And yet… somehow, I got left off the invite list. I remember sitting with that, really letting it sink in. Girl, you are literally a half-sibling. No matter how much I had convinced myself otherwise, no matter how much I wanted to believe we were all the same and we didn’t do that… That moment made it painfully clear.

I don’t know where I’m going with this. And I’m not here to air out resentment. But I do wonder sometimes, what if someone had just acknowledged it? What if, instead of brushing it off, they had just said, I see you. I know it’s not fair. But you’re not alone. I definitely don’t think it wouldn’t have changed much, but I do think it would’ve made a difference.

And maybe that’s what I’ll tell myself today. I see you. I know it’s not fair. But you’re not alone.

Xoxo, Drea