After Them: Being the Youngest

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You were born after them.

Being born the youngest means watching your siblings fall in love, graduate, move out, and become adults — all while you’re still trying to make sense of the world around you.

You and your older brother by three years used to be close. You used to stay up long nights in your shared bedroom laughing, used to watch movies together and fight over whether or not a stunt would kill someone in real life. He used to bully you lovingly, and you would get so annoyed with him, but you’d smile anyway because you loved him. For a time, blinded by youth and shielded from the real struggles of life, you believed what you had was magical — that nothing could separate you two.

But then you wake up at three in the morning, look down at yourself, and realize you’re not so little anymore. You forgot when the first time you slept in your own bed was, when you slept in your own room by yourself. You didn’t realize it then, but part of growing up is growing apart. Now, when you see the same boy down the hall in the doorway of his room, you realize he just graduated High School and he’s turning eighteen soon. You realize you haven’t had an actual conversation with him in years, and you don’t remember when the split started.

So you calmly walk to your room, lock the door behind you, and pick up your phone. Your fingers hover over the numbers of your sisters’, maybe to ask for advice — because they always have the best advice — or just to cry, to let someone know you’re hurting. But you and your sisters don’t do that. You don’t cry to each other on the phone, you don’t talk outside of family gatherings and holidays. They’re six and twelve years older than you, after all. Why would they want to talk to a kid who doesn’t know any better?

So, instead, you shut off your phone and lay down in bed, stare up at the ceiling, and wince at the quiet. Where was the argument over who clogged the toilet? Why couldn’t you hear the sound of your sister accusing you of drinking the rest of the milk, or your brother asking who ate his leftovers? You still remember fighting over the front seat with your siblings, always rushing toward the car after leaving the grocery store, yelling “I call shotgun!” and getting there first, even if you knew your mother was going to put you in the back in your car seat like she always did.

You remember the first time the eldest moved out. You remember it got quieter after that, after she found her own apartment. You remember hearing your mom on the phone with her, complaining about bills and insects — she always hated those. But she had begun her life before you even knew what that meant.

After that, your other sister and your brother got closer. You remember lying in bed, hearing them laugh through the thin walls you grew up in. You remember thinking, “What are they laughing about?” but not being brave enough to get up and go ask, because you knew if you did, it wouldn’t be that funny anymore.

That’s around the first time you felt left out. Sure, you were too young to understand the inside jokes your sisters had, but you were always included in some way. This ache — this sinking feeling that you came into this world too late — was new. Of course, your mother noticed. Why wouldn’t she? She was always there for you, even when you didn’t know it. She tried her best to include you — told your sister to show you the photo she showed your brother, told your brother to take a picture with you, even if he didn’t want to because you two weren’t close like that anymore. You never corrected her on it — she was only doing her best as a mother, you didn’t have the heart to tell her that it made it worse, but it always made you feel like you were the last to know. The last to see, the last to share an awkward hug with them.

After your other sister moved out, you had to learn the language of silence. Had to learn to be comfortable in it, had to learn to prefer it over the loud. You had to learn to breathe calmly when you walk out of your room to be greeted with an empty living room, a dark kitchen, and the low sound of your brother’s TV in his room.

When the word “depression” slipped out of the doctor’s lips, you left the clinic with a conflicting feeling. Depression? Such a dull word for such a shitty feeling. You didn’t tell your mom or your siblings — you were fine. Sure, you cried sometimes, but doesn’t everyone? Plus, that would only make things harder for your mother, and she had enough on her plate right now. So you didn’t mention it. You got good at forcing yourself not to cry in public. Made sure to muffle your sobs in your pillow when they were home. Learned how to be quiet, even when it felt like the entire world was collapsing around you, when it felt like your lungs were constricting and you couldn’t suck in a breath.

It’s not theirs to carry.

You were born after them. You were born after they went to Disney World, after they splashed in the pool laughing, after your siblings had their childlike whimsy and played with dolls. You were born after your sisters became best friends, after your mom still had energy to dance around and play, after jumping on the trampoline was still fun. You were born after they experienced childhood, and never were given the chance to get to know them.

You were born when your sisters entered High School, when they suddenly didn’t have any time for family and had more fun going out with their friends. You were born when they thought kids were annoying, when you asked to play and they gave you this look like you just insulted them. You were born when everyone else was tired and would just tell you to go play with your cousin. You were born at a time when everyone else had already moved on to the next stage of life, and all you wanted was someone to grow up with.

You still feel disconnected from your siblings. You don’t talk to them. You feel awkward when they ask how you’re doing — because they haven’t asked that in a while — and you’re not sure if you should tell them the truth or just smile and say “I’m good,” like you always do.

So you lie in your room at night, check the time — 4:28 in the morning — and think to yourself that if you had just been born a little bit sooner, maybe you wouldn’t feel so alone in a house full of people.