My Sister

Today, I want to talk about my sister.

And honestly, just writing my sister makes me smile.

Because when you are 11 years younger than her, you grow up saying things like:

“I’m telling my sister.”

“Wait until my sister gets here.”

“My sister is going to destroy you.”

And yes… she probably would have.

My sister always defended me, always protected me, always loved me.

With her, I was innocent even when all the evidence said otherwise. I was innocent even when I was the one telling her, “No, no, this time it really was me.”

She would still probably defend me first and ask what happened later.

Because that was my sister.

Today she has three children, but I can still say that I was probably her first.

She was my big sister, but sometimes she was also a little bit like my second mom.

She has always been organized, hardworking, serious…

And late.

Always late.

Don’t ask me how, but this woman could be impossible to wake up in the morning, arrive late, and somehow still do an amazing job.

When I was in middle school, we were asked to write a few lines about someone we admired, someone we wanted to become like.

A few lines.

Of course, I wrote five pages about my sister.

I thought only my teacher would read it.

Then she gave it to her.

And later, my sister asked me:

“Did you really mean all of that about me?”

Yes.

I did.

And I still do.

When I was little, my sister was the person I wanted to become like.

She taught me what it meant to face life with a smile.

To work hard even when nobody really believed in you.

To keep going anyway.

To always find a way.

Because she always had a solution.

My dad used to call her “Miss Know-It-All.”

And honestly… he wasn’t completely wrong.

My sister knew everything.

Or at least, I was convinced she did.

She made me love science. She showed me that physics could actually be fun. She even managed to make me understand that mathematics was maybe not completely my enemy.

She saw more in me than I ever saw in myself.

She believed in me before I even knew what I was capable of.

And God, I wish she could see herself through my eyes.

I wish she could see how wonderful she is.

How much I would fight the whole world for her.

How deserving she is of love, kindness, gentleness, and everything good.

I wish she could see herself the way I see her, even just once.

Because maybe then she would understand why, when I was little, I wanted so badly to be like her.

My sister.

My sister was also all those little things we sometimes forget.

She preferred sleeping in the dark.

I was scared of it.

So she kept the light on for me.

It sounds like such a small thing.

But to me, that is also who my sister is.

Someone willing to be a little uncomfortable just so you can feel safe.

She always used to tell me:

“Tell me beforehand so I can prepare to help you. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way.”

And she always did.

I often joke about how whenever something happened, she was the first person I called.

One day, I needed to go to the emergency room.

She was two hours away.

My dad was a twenty-minute walk from me.

Who did I call?

My sister.

Obviously.

I called her crying and told her I needed her.

Because in my mind, if my sister was there, somehow everything would be okay.

She would know what to do.

And of course, she did.

Like always.

Today she has her own family. She lives far away. She has her husband, her children, her responsibilities.

Life changed.

But whenever something happens, I still have the same reflex:

My sister would know what to do.

And as I got older, that thought started to bring another question with it.

A question that sometimes makes me feel guilty.

Who does she call?

When she does not know what to do, who does she call?

When she is tired, when she is scared, when she needs someone… who does she turn to?

Because I grew up with this absolute certainty that I could count on her.

And sometimes I wonder if she has ever felt that same certainty with me.

Do you know that you can call me?

Any day.

Any hour.

Do you know that I would come?

That I would look for a solution?

That I would fight for you the same way you have always fought for me?

I hope you do.

And if I have never shown you enough, then at least I want to tell you today:

I am here.

Today is your birthday.

And many years before I ever came into this world, one of the most beautiful souls came into it first.

And somewhere, Allah had already written that this person would become my sister.

Today you are a wife.

You are a mother.

And a wonderful one.

Your children probably already know how lucky they are.

But I want to make sure they also know who their mother was before them.

The sister who defended her little sister before even knowing the story.

The one who always knew what to do.

The one who always found a way.

The one who believed in me when I doubted myself.

The one who made me love science.

The one who kept the light on because she knew I was scared.

The one I admired so much that I wrote five pages about her when I was only asked for a few lines.

And the one I still admire today.

So happy birthday, my sister.

I ask Allah to protect you, to protect your family, and to put barakah in your life, your marriage, and your children.

May He return to you all the good you have given to everyone around you.

All the patience.

All the kindness.

All the gentleness.

All the love.

And more than anything, I hope that one day you will be able to see yourself through my eyes.

Because if you could see yourself the way I see you, maybe then you would finally understand just how extraordinary you are.

And among all the things I thank Allah for in my life, there is one I never want to forget:

He made you my sister.