Why her? Why not me?

These two questions have always haunted me.

I am Elizabeth, John's average youngest child, and she is Sara, John's genius oldest child. She was always ahead of me in everything- looks, academics, sports, arts.

I was never enough.

The way my mom looks at her makes me want to become like her. I turned my life into a mission to outshine Sara.

I studied hard. I became a university topper. I still remember that day I ran towards my parents, screaming with joy. Their eyes shone with pride. My father patted my head. My aunt called to congratulate me, and after a brief chat, I passed the phone to Mom. Mom kept smiling the whole time. Then, she said, almost casually, “It's not a surprise. With a sister who’s the top pilot in the country, being a university topper is the least she could do, right? “

My whole world crashed. Happiness turned to sadness in seconds. My smile faded. Even while receiving the certificate, her words echoed in my ears.

This was not the first time; from my childhood, whatever I did was never enough. When I became the fastest athlete in my school, they compared it to Sara winning the Best Basketball Player. When I showed my drawings, Papa said, “It's great, but something is missing. Take Sara’s drawing and check it. Those are beautiful; you can learn from them.” I know Papa just wanted to improve my skills, but it hurts.

And what made it worse was that Sara was a genius, kind-hearted, the best sister I could ask for. She never underestimated me; she supported and believed in me. She smelled like jasmine, her scent spread warmth through my body. All of this made it so hard to hate her.

I can never hate her. The only thing I could do was hate myself.

I tried to hate my parents. But I couldn’t. Like every parent, they only wanted their child to be the best. Maybe I wasn’t the “best” they hoped for. But I wish they’d heard me… I wish they had heard my silence.

 I wish I had told Papa, “I don’t want to learn from Sara’s painting. I want you to see the sketch I am trying to be.” But I never did. I wish I did.

Along the way, I forgot how to talk, make friends, laugh- to live.

The cage I built for myself was so strong that I couldn’t break it.

I tried to… but I couldn’t break it.

I thought my problems would end if I moved away from them.

But Boston’s crowd couldn’t silence the voices in my head. Every night, I woke in a cold sweat, breathless in a room full of silence. The fear of being a failure increased day by day. The fear of not being enough engulfed me.

The cage grows smaller. Stronger. And I couldn't breathe.

Each time I tried to break free, it grew stronger.

As I sat at my desk to write for the last time, a knife beside my book. I thought to myself, what do I write? Will they understand?

I only wrote one question in that paper. The question that ruined me over and over again.

WAS I EVER ENOUGH?

Now, when I stand beside my motionless body, I see Mom hugging me tightly. Sara’s eyes searching for the last trace of me. Papa holds my paper with trembling hands, whispering, “You were more than enough.”

Why didn’t he ever tell me this before? Would it have been different if I had known this?