Soliloquies Anthology 30.1

By Cate Murphy

The person I love the most and hate the most in this entire world is my big sister. 

Both feelings exist at the same time. They are impossible to avoid, but they keep me grounded in what is real. As the younger sister, I saw early on how unfair things could be. I was born second, and from the start, I had someone older who seemed to know it all.

The eldest daughter is usually the test-run for parents. My sister faced expectations and rules that later shaped how I was treated. She got to stay out late because she was called ‘responsible,’ because she was born first. I had stricter curfews because of what happened with her. She got new things for school while I got her old ones since they ‘still worked.’ I wore her hand-me-downs, clothes already broken in, sweaters that still smelled like her, and I ended up with a reputation that never really fit me. Just like the sweaters, I was given a personality others assumed I’d grow into, even though it pinched in some places, sagged in others, and never once felt like something I’d picked for myself.

Being the younger sister means you notice everything. Watching her for years taught me how to read people. I learned timing from her jokes and how to stand up for myself during our fights over space and things— closet space, desk space, bed space, every inch of our shared room negotiated like a treaty. Having siblings teaches you how to compete, copy, admire, and sometimes feel left out.

Loving an older sister is a quiet form of respect. Even hating her feels like a strong kind of loyalty. She’s the person I always compare myself to, in the past, present, and  future. She’s like a mirror, showing me who I am, and a magnifying glass, making my flaws look bigger. You can’t distance yourself from someone who remembers your imaginary friends, your bad haircuts, or your most embarrassing moments.

She was the first person I wanted to be like but also the first person I promised myself I wouldn’t become. I loved her brilliance, however, I could already sense the cracks underneath—the way she dimmed herself to keep the peace, the way she carried weight that was never hers. I didn’t want to inherit those shadows

Still, she was the first to protect me without saying anything. She showed me where to stand in family photos, telling me, ‘chin down, or you’ll regret it.’ She taught me how to lie to my parents and not get caught, and how to know when a joke had gone too far. She showed me what bravery looked like before I even knew the word.

But hating her is just my way of showing love without being too sentimental. Loving her means admitting that every version of myself was shaped by her. In the strange and sometimes unfair world of sisters, that doesn’t feel like a contradiction. It feels like balance.

The most important moment in our sisterhood, the one that made this love-hate feeling real, wasn’t a big fight or a time of shared sadness. It was the summer she left for college, four hundred miles away. Before that, our relationship was close, but tense. We were roommates and rivals, friends and fighters, separated only by two years, a thin wall and even less patience.

When she left, I thought I would feel a huge sense of relief and find a big empty space where she used to be. I looked forward to getting the bathroom back, having the TV remote, and most of all, finding my own identity. I imagined finally picking my own music in the car without her comments, or wearing a new shirt without her saying, “Oh, that’s so out of style”.

The first week was great. I walked around the house feeling proud of my new independence. I painted my room in a color she never liked, left my shoes wherever I wanted, and enjoyed the small thrill of breaking the rules. I was finally the main focus, the only daughter at home. The hand-me-downs were packed away, my reputation was up for a fresh start, and for the first time, I felt like myself.

But the silence didn’t stay clear. It became heavy, thick, and suffocating.

I missed the noise she’d made–the aggressive clatter of her keys against the ceramic dish by the door, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of her running shoes on the treadmill at 6 a.m., the way she’d chew her gum with an open, irritating snap. Without those familiar, annoying sounds, the house felt less like a home and more like a carefully curated museum exhibit. I found myself hovering by the washing machine, hoping to catch a stray scent of the obscure, earthy lavender detergent she preferred, a smell that was uniquely hers.

I started doing things I normally wouldn’t, just to feel close to her. I took her car, the one she always protected, for a drive, speeding a little on a back road to hear the engine roar the way she liked. I even argued with my mom about ‘unfair curfews’ and ‘stifling expectations,’ only to realize I was repeating her old arguments, the ones I used to think were too dramatic. I was playing her role in our shared story, just because she wasn’t there to do it.

I realized the hate was just the tension that comes from being too close. When she left, the hate didn’t disappear; it turned into a painful emptiness, a pull that was still there but had nothing to hold onto.

That fall, I learned something important: I compared myself to her not to compete but to figure out who I was. She was the steady point I used to guide myself. Without her, I felt lost and unsure of myself. I didn’t know if I was funny until she said a joke didn’t work. I didn’t know if I was strong until I had to stand up to her.

One cold October night, I finally called her. The conversation was awkward and slow. We talked about classes and food. I didn’t say I missed her. That felt too vulnerable, too much to admit.

Instead, I said, “Mom tried to make your pasta sauce the other night. It was terrible. She used too much oregano.”

A short, sharp laugh came through the phone line. “Of course, she did. It’s an amateur mistake. Tell her to use basil instead, and only a pinch of oregano, right at the end.”

That was it. That was the love. It wasn’t a big, emotional moment but a shared understanding of our family’s odd habits and secret rules. She was still teaching me, still showing me how to handle the kitchen, the family, and life, even from far away. The call ended quickly but for the first time in months, the house felt less empty.

The hate is still there, of course. It’s the part of me that pushes back against her influence and wants to be my own person. But now, it’s a healthy kind of resistance, not real anger. 

It took growing up to realize that she wasn’t trying to overshadow me, she was just learning everything the hard way so I wouldn’t have to. All the curfews she fought, the mistakes she made, the arguments she lost with our parents, they became the blueprint for how I’d be treated. She didn’t just shape me by example; she cleared the road I’d eventually walk. And now years later in adulthood, we’re closer than ever and spend our time  looking  back on all those years to laugh at how dramatic we once were. Time softened everything except our bond.

She is my big sister. She’s the best and the worst, and that’s my favourite thing about her.