Afternoons were spent in the library, where I held a student job reshelving books and wiping down tables still sticky from late-night study sessions. It was quiet work. Gentle work. The kind of space I needed after a life of chaos I couldn’t name. Sometimes, while pushing carts between the shelves, I imagined my younger self hiding there, small and tired, finally finding peace in those aisles.
Evenings were for studying. Nights were for catching up. Weekends were for extra shifts. I lived on instant noodles, clearance-bin vegetables, and coffee I made by accident at the shop so I could drink it for free. I didn’t go to parties. I didn’t buy new clothes. I didn’t explore the city.
Everything I earned went into survival.
Or at least, it was supposed to.
It started small—just fifty dollars here, a hundred there. Mom called one night during midterms, her voice tight with stress. “Your dad’s hours got cut,” she said. “We’re short on the electric bill. Can you help a little?” I wired her a hundred dollars the next morning before buying groceries for myself.
A week later, Dad called about the water bill. “It’s just temporary,” he said. “You’re always so responsible.” He said it like a compliment, but I heard the chains tightening.
Still, I sent another hundred.
Then came Sabrina.
Of course it did.
One afternoon, while wiping counters in the library, my phone buzzed. A message from her: Can you please help? My credit card is maxed and I need to pay rent or they’ll kick me out. A part of me wanted to ignore it. Another part—the one shaped by years of you’re strong, Olivia—grabbed my wallet. I sent her money I couldn’t spare, telling myself it was just this once.
It wasn’t.
Every bad decision Sabrina made seemed to land at my feet. When she overdrafted her account buying concert tickets instead of groceries, I covered it. When she quit her job because her manager “looked at her wrong,” I paid her rent again. When she got into a minor fender bender, I skipped buying my own textbooks and borrowed from classmates instead.
Each time I tried to push back, my parents reminded me, “Your sister is under a lot of pressure. She’s not as strong as you.” And each time, guilt rose in my throat like acid until I swallowed it down.
Some days, I was proud of myself. Helping felt good. Felt meaningful—even when it hurt. I told myself that family was worth sacrifices. That maybe love was measured in how much you were willing to give.
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