Those Who Give and Those Who Go

Mia

Kelsey comes into my room, like always, on Sunday night. She flops onto my unmade bed, hiding her face among the loose papers and books strewn across the sheets. For a while, she doesn’t say anything. I know by now to let her speak first. This is our routine.

After an eternity of silence, she says softly, “I’m nervous.”

“About what?” I ask, keeping my eyes locked on our shared computer screen.

“What do you mean, what? Everything. What if the other girls don’t like me? What if I never play?”

“You’ll play, Kels. They wouldn’t have recruited you if they didn’t want you there,” I assure her.

She closes her eyes, thinking about it, and doesn’t disagree.

“Besides,” I continue, “haven’t you already met the girls at the freshman orientation? You said they were nice.”

“Yeah, but who knows what they’ll be like once the season starts….”

“The only thing you can control is your playing. So just focus on yourself,” I remind her.

She smirks. “You sound like Mom.”

“I’m gonna ignore that,” I say, rolling my eyes. “And no matter what, Mom and I are just a phone call away.”

“I know.” She looks away, hiding from the things unsaid. Tomorrow morning, Kelsey will leave for college, and I’ll be home. Neither of us wants to think about what will happen next.

She uncharacteristically rises from the comfort of my bed, beelining to my closet.

“Hey! Just cause you’re leaving doesn’t mean you get my stuff,” I warn her. Despite this, she opens the small, white doors, revealing a dresser and a few hooks. Sifting through the little clothing I’ve kept since high school, eyeing each piece as if she hasn’t already seen all of these before.

“Can I take this?” She holds a plain blue T-shirt that I haven’t worn in years.

“I guess,” I agree grudgingly.

“What about this?” She fishes out a sparkly black tank top.

“No, I like that top.”

“But what if I wanna go out? I don’t have any going out tops,” she whines.

“Well, what if I wanna go out? You can buy clothes in California, you know.”

“You never go out,” she responds without missing a beat.

“And why do you think that is?” I say quietly.

Kelsey

I’ve always wished I had Mia’s room. The pale blue walls were a much better choice than my bubblegum pink. Mom let us redecorate our rooms when I was ten and Mia was thirteen. I should’ve listened to her teenage wisdom, chiding me that I’d hate the pink soon enough, but on my quest for independence, I ignored her. She was right, like always.

Then, at eleven, I begged my mom to let me repaint the walls. I knew I would pick better this time if she allowed me to prove myself. “Should’ve listened to me,” Mia reminded me, again and again, touting her three years of extra knowledge. It took all my strength not to fight her. I knew she was right.

Little did I know, the reason why my mom refused to let me paint my walls again wasn’t because of some deep-rooted hatred for her secondborn, but because our money now needed to be spent on other things. Pain relief. Surgery. Specialists. Chemotherapy.

When Mom started treatment six years ago, I spent more time in Mia’s room than my own. I remember staring at the fairy lights she’d gotten from the dollar store and posters she’d printed off of Pinterest, wishing I had her talents. She could make anything beautiful. I’d rifle through her closet as she sorted through her endlessly cluttered room, wondering how the fashion gene had skipped me. At that time, she’d let me take anything I wanted. It was her way of supporting me, letting me know that everything would be okay.

Most of the time, we didn’t talk. We just sat in silence, me on her bed and Mia sprawled across the floor, finding comfort in the silence and each other’s presence. I wish I could go back to that time--not for the pain, but for the bond I gained with my sister. When we weren’t soaking in the quiet, we’d order takeout from our favorite restaurants--India Palace and Chipotle--and huddle around the family computer. We had to avoid most movies that defined our childhood (the Little Mermaid, Finding Nemo, the Sound of Music, Tangled) for the obvious mother-dying storyline. Sometimes, I think we just wanted a break from being surrounded by sickness--Hallmark rom-coms distracted us from our uncertain futures, transporting us into worlds where the couple always finds their way back to each other, and happy endings are expected. It wasn’t a permanent fix, of course, but at least we could spend a few hours without having to face our mother’s illness head-on.

My mom was almost gone after the first surgery, to remove the first tumor--still alive, but barely there. Just a sliver of a person. She lost her spark and her motivation to do anything but sit on the couch. Through it all, Mia was there for us: working extra shifts, driving me to tournaments while playing on her own team, helping me with my homework. She filled the void my mom created, so when she left for college, suddenly, I lost my mother, sister, and best friend, all at once. Now I’m the one leaving, and I’m stuck with the question: what will I do without her?

Mia

I still remember the summer after my senior year of high school in perfect detail. It was three years ago--a lifetime, in terms of most measurements--but sometimes, watching Kelsey in that same stage of her life, it feels like only yesterday.

I remember the feeling of relief. I’d done what no one thought possible--secure an athletic scholarship to a top college while working shifts at McDonald's and as a kid’s soccer coach to support my family. I was escaping our tiny town that had been suffocating me for the last eighteen years. Finally, I could go out on my own; experience life without constantly caring for others.

I remember the exhaustion, pushing my body to its limits to stay in shape for the beginning of the soccer season. I was paralyzed with fear--much like Kelsey is now--that despite my talent, I’d never measure up to the other girls on the team. People told me, over and over again, “You’re good enough, Mia,” and “You deserve this,” but their words never sunk in.

Most of all, I remember the looks on my mom and sister’s faces when I left for Northwestern. I had stuffed the entirety of my closet into a cheap suitcase, rolling it unsteadily into the trunk of the cab. My mom insisted she felt well enough to drive, but I didn’t want to risk it. She was smiling, but beneath her reassuring happiness was worry. “What will I do without you?” She’d muttered to herself thousands of times that summer. I knew that same message was playing in her head now.

Kelsey didn’t even try to hide her feelings. A few tears dotted her face as we hugged goodbye, and her expression was stone-cold. I knew she, too, was wondering: How could you leave us?

I’d always thought going away would bring me more freedom--no annoying sister or ailing mother to think of before myself. But suddenly, as I sat in the back of the cab on the way to the airport, the burden felt heavier than ever. All I could think about was how I was abandoning my family when they needed me the most.

Ultimately, that’s why I came home barely two months into my first semester. Some may say I couldn’t handle the pressure, that I’m a quitter--I'm sure the other girls on the team did. But none of them understood; none of them came from families like mine. If you were in my shoes, you’d have done the same.

Kelsey

There’s an uncomfortable silence after Mia utters those painful words. I know the answer to her question--I’ve been thinking about it since she moved back home before she had even experienced anything.

She doesn’t go out because of us. She left college because of us. She gave up her dream of playing soccer in college because of us. Because of Mom’s cancer always teetering on the edge of a resurgence, and because I couldn’t take care of her well enough.

We’re the reason why she missed the opportunity of her life. Mom and I made her lose out on her future. Because of us, because of our problems, she sits at home all day, occasionally taking a class at the local community college, spending most of her time taking care of Mom and daydreaming about what could’ve been.

When Mia destroys our delicate relationship with seven simple words, suddenly, my grief turns to anger. I never asked her to come home. We told her to enjoy her future as a soccer star; it’s not my fault she couldn’t do it.

“You know that’s not fair,” I say, my voice low and strained.

“No, you know what’s not fair? The fact that I gave my whole life for you and Mom, and I couldn’t even experience the one thing that was mine alone.”

“Mia--” I start, but she cuts me off.

“My whole life has been unfair, Kelsey!” She shouts. “I took care of other people for so long that when I finally got the chance to put myself first, I didn’t even know how. I couldn’t do it. That’s not fair.” She shudders a breath and tries to hide her sobs. I wipe away a few tears, stunned into silence.

After a few seconds of silence, I stand up to leave, pausing at her door frame for a moment. Curled up into a ball, hiding from the world, her eyes vacant; so different from the sister I grew up with. So young and fragile--she hadn’t even lived.

Mia

Kelsey was born at the crack of dawn. My mom always says that Kelsey woke the world with her screams, and I can attest to that. My dad left long before my baby sister was born, so my mom brought me to the hospital with her. I saw the miracle of childbirth at the ripe age of three. I remember my mom squeezing my hand and the nurses bringing me candy, but I only wanted to see my sister.

I won’t lie and say that she was a beautiful baby. In all honesty, she looked a little frightening. Despite her less-than-ideal appearance, when my mom asked if I wanted to hold her, I jumped at the chance. She was so light and weightless--until she started screaming. That’s when I gave her back to my mom, and also when I knew my life was about to change.

For the next few years, I was by Kelsey’s side for all her major milestones--sitting up, crawling, talking, walking. My mom did her best not to ignore me, even with Kelsey’s never-ending needs.

When Kelsey turned seven and announced she wanted to start dressing like me, my heart swelled with pride. When she finally outgrew her baby face, and her features began to resemble mine and Mom’s--all three of us with rosy cheeks, hazel eyes, and sharp noses--I realized how similar we were. I introduced her to soccer for the first time, and after that, we played together in our driveway all the time. We’d team up against the boys in our neighborhood and win every game. I was better at dribbling and passing, but she had a way of finding the net. My sister, ever my competitor, but also my best friend.

My whole life has been unfair. I gave my whole life for you.

Unfair.

Unfair.

Unfair.

I can’t believe I said that to her. My sister, now my enemy.

As Kelsey quietly exits my room, I stare at my reflection in my vanity mirror. The girl who looks back with tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes isn’t me. I know, deep down, that if my sister comes home in a month, if she quits as I did, it’ll be my fault.

Kelsey

I stumble into my room, almost tripping over the piles of unfolded clothing and my empty suitcase. My pink walls seem to glare at me.

In fact, every part of my room is adorned with memories of my sister. The small space behind my bed is covered by a bulletin board--photos of my soccer team, my three closest friends, postcards from tournaments, family portraits. On my chipping-white desk, I’ve framed a few of my favorite photos from my childhood: Mia and me sitting on our front porch, my mom and me on my first day of school, and me hugging Mia.

Desperate to escape the endless memories, I stare out the window beside my bed. Our neighborhood is nothing special; all the houses were designed by the same architect, with small lawns, white mailboxes, and sidewalk chalk covering the asphalt. My eyes settle on my discarded rose-gold bike shoved behind our garbage bins.

I grew up playing sports and hide-and-seek with the neighborhood kids. By now, they’re all long gone; they were all Mia’s age or older, and Mia’s the only one still here. I was the baby of the group, always trailing behind and in need of a protector. I remember running up and down our block and the surrounding streets, hiding behind bushes and trash cans, and chasing the ice cream truck down the block in the summer.

When I was six, I learned how to ride a bike, and that was the game-changer in my relationship with the neighbors. Before, I’d watch them do tricks against the curb and play “Bumper Bikes,” but I couldn’t participate. “You’re too young, and besides, I don’t have time to teach you,” my overworked mom would say. This was before she got sick, but even then, she worked night shifts as a nurse and mornings in a cafe so we could live in our picture-perfect neighborhood. Coming from a single-parent household, we stuck out, but Mom always said she was our mother and father. She doesn’t like to talk about our dad, but from what I’ve gathered from overheard whispered conversations, fatherhood wasn’t his priority, and he left three months into Mom’s pregnancy with me.

In TV shows, the dad is always the one to introduce biking to his kids. Since that wasn’t a possibility for me, I was lucky enough that Mia finally grew exasperated by my constant whining and bargaining. “I’ll teach you,” she announced one summer night. I couldn’t believe my ears.

The next morning, she woke me up with the sound of her screeching bike bell. “If you wanna learn, we start right now!” She shouted. I thought she was taking her role as a teacher too seriously.

We started in our driveway--in hindsight, the harsh pavement and constant potholes were not a good recipe for an aspiring bicyclist. Mia handed me her bike distrustfully, keeping one of her hands on it at all times. Not for my safety, but for the bike.

“You’re letting me use your bike?” I asked, eyes wide.

Mia grimaced. “Against my better judgment, yes.”

Always the cautious one, I asked, “But aren’t I supposed to start with training wheels?”

“You don’t need training wheels. Training wheels are for babies.”

After an hour and a half of falling, it became apparent that I did, in fact, need training wheels.

We practiced biking every morning that summer until I learned. This training consisted of Mia pushing me in the middle of the street while holding on to the back of the bike, screaming, “Pedal, Kelsey! Faster!” One or both of us usually crashed into a tree or mailbox. Mia never let me give up, despite our eight-week course yielding the promising statistics of twenty-three scraped knees, four boxes of Band-Aids, countless tears, and fifteen or so speeches about “perseverance” and “trying harder” from Mia.

At long last, on a scorching July day, I succeeded. As Mia grasped the back of her faded teal Early Ride 3000, I suddenly realized how simple biking was. I pedaled and didn’t stop, triumphantly braking after a two-block victory lap. I’ll never know why it took me so long to grasp such a basic concept, but now, I remember how my sister never stopped supporting me. She was always by my side.

Mia

When I was nine and Kelsey was six, I taught her how to ride a bike. I was bored, and tired of hearing her complain about not knowing how, and yes, maybe I liked feeling like her big sister and protector. But that’s not the point.

I remember how bad she was at first. Truly, exceptionally, untalented at such a mundane skill. I let her use my bike, which I quickly realized was equivalent to grating it against the pavement for eight hours. She spent more time falling than actually on the bike. Somehow--and I deserve some credit for this--she never gave up, and finally, she learned.

I admired her six-year-old resilience. At the same time, even then, I resented that she had so much support at a young age. I didn’t have an older sister to tell me to keep going; I had to be that voice for myself.

But what I remember most isn’t any bitter jealousy or pride in my teaching ability. I remember seeing her take off for the first time--me holding on to the back like always, and then I let go, and she kept going. And she didn’t look back. That was the first time I realized my sister and I wouldn’t be two forever.

Kelsey

Amidst my reminiscing and empty gazing out the window, I hear a soft knock on my door. I don’t respond, but Mia comes in anyway. She glances around my room, trying to hide her judgment of those pink walls and the clothing that covers every surface. Still silent, she awkwardly moves a stack of sweatpants off my desk chair and sits down.

It’s weird enough that she’s in here; we never hang out in my room. Neither one of us wants to break the tension. We compete for who can look away the longest and sigh the loudest.

“Kels,” she finally says. I don’t respond. I’m determined to win.

“Kelsey,” she tries again, her voice stronger this time. “Please talk to me.”

“I don’t have anything to say,” I respond, tears spilling down my cheeks as I burrow my face into my comforter.

“Let me talk then.”

I wait.

“I’m so, so sorry. I didn’t mean it, at all,” she says, and she looks genuinely sorry.

“Bullshit,” I mutter softly.

“Okay, you’re right. I did mean it a little. But I shouldn’t have said it like that.

“You have to understand…sometimes when I see you getting ready to go to college, and knowing you’ll be able to enjoy it when I couldn’t…I resent that about you. And it’s not your fault. But it does suck sometimes, being the star in high school and a D1 commit, and then coming back home and being back at square one.” She pauses, out of breath, and covers her head with her arms. “I’m really sorry, Kels.”

“Are you done with your monologue?” I ask, sitting up. She lifts her head slowly and cracks a smile.

“I could go on….”

“I’m sorry too,” I say, suddenly serious. “That you felt that way. And that I didn’t help.”

“It’s okay. Or it will be,” she says as she stands up from my desk and lays down next to me on my bed.

“I’m proud of you. I hope you know that. You deserve this, one hundred percent,” she says softly. I wrap my arms around her, and we just sit there for a few minutes. It occurs to me that this is one of the last times we’ll be together for a while.

Mia

It’s been three months since that fateful Sunday night--Kelsey has officially outlasted me in her collegiate career. I’ve gone to four of her games, but this weekend will be her first time coming home. In the meantime, I got my high school job as a kid’s soccer coach back and joined a recreational women’s league. Neither team is very competitive--yet--but it’s fun to be around the sport. Plus, it’s nice to teach kids again; it reminds me of when I’d play with Kelsey. Things are starting to look up.

That’s when I hear it--that familiar voice. “I’m home!”

Seconds later, I hear footsteps approaching, and Kelsey barges into my room, like always. I laugh as she jumps onto my bed and pushes the stray objects off. It’s like she never left. Even though we didn’t get our picture-perfect Hallmark closing scene, this ending is pretty good.