Yesterday morning, I got a call from my dad. My sister (28F) had been rushed to urgent care after collapsing at home. She has a chronic illness that’s been getting worse, and apparently, there was no one around to help her. My dad lives across the country, and I (26F) live just twenty-five minutes away.
He begged me to go check on her—to help with her discharge and drive her home. I said no. Not “I can’t.” Just no.
He went quiet, stunned into silence, like he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. Then, after a long pause, he said, “You are a very cruel person.” I didn’t respond. I simply hung up.
For the next hour, I sat there, the guilt creeping in—but so did the memories. I was sixteen when our mom was dying of late-stage cancer. I was the one cooking, cleaning, juggling school, and rushing between home and the hospital.
My sister was eighteen—technically an adult—but she still went out every night to party with her boyfriend. I’ll never forget the night I called her, crying, because Mom was bleeding and I didn’t know what to do. She said, “Not my problem,” and hung up.
I never forgot that moment. I never got an apology, either. Yet at the funeral, she stood up and spoke as if she’d been by Mom’s side every second. I wanted to throw up.
By yesterday afternoon, my phone was flooded with missed calls—my aunt, my dad, even my sister. One of her texts read, “Please. I need help.”
I didn’t reply. I stayed in my apartment, ordered takeout, and watched a movie.
It’s not that I want her to suffer. I just don’t want to be the one fixing her life when mine meant nothing to her back then.
Can you help me out?