When I was just six, my whole world shattered. Our parents were taken from us in a car accident, and I thought my life was over. But my sister—barely eighteen herself—stood like a mountain between me and the storm. Everyone in the family told her she was too young, too fragile, too lost to take care of me. But she fought with them all, and she chose me.
She became my mother, my father, my best friend. She packed my lunchbox every morning, and sometimes I would find little notes inside—scribbled reminders of love, tiny words that made my whole day bright. She worked hard to keep me in school, to keep me happy, to make me feel like I wasn’t alone. She never let me feel the emptiness of the loss we shared.
Today, I am 16. I got my very first salary. The amount is small, nothing grand. But with it, I bought a dress for her. It’s not expensive, but to me, it carries every ounce of my love, every tear I swallowed, every smile she gave me when I needed it most.
As I held that dress in my hands, I realized—it’s not cloth I’m giving her, it’s a thank you. A thank you for giving up her own youth to raise me. A thank you for being my sister and my mother. A thank you for teaching me that family isn’t about age or ability, but about love and sacrifice.
And when I see her wear it, I know I’ll cry—not because of what I gave, but because of what she has given me all these years: everything.
Credit to the respective author ~