**Diary Entry: The Day I Nearly Lost My Sister**
I was only ten years old when I truly understood what it meant to grow up. It didn’t come from a quiet family chat, a school lesson, or even a book. It came from fear, pain, and the crushing thought that I might lose my little sister—my Ellie.
It all began, as it does for many eldest children, with a sense of unfairness. Any girl who’s had to look after a younger sibling will know the feeling. The endless tasks, the nagging: “You’re older, you should know better,” “Mum and Dad are stepping out—keep an eye on Ellie.” I felt like an unpaid babysitter, robbed of my childhood, my games, my freedom.
Ellie was five then—a whirlwind of energy, always underfoot, always trailing after me. All I wanted was one evening with my mates. We’d planned a film night, popped corn, poured squash—made a proper little cinema in my room. And, of course, I’d completely forgotten I was supposed to be watching Ellie.
Not half an hour in, a loud *thud* came from the next room. My heart lurched. I bolted in to find the toppled wardrobe, Ellie sprawled beside it, clutching her leg and sobbing. Later, we learned it was just a bad sprain and bruising—thank God, no break. She’d climbed the wardrobe to reach a book on the top shelf.
My parents tore into me that night. Tears, shouting, blame: “You weren’t paying attention!” “She could’ve been killed!” I clenched my fists, seething. I wanted to scream, “I never asked for a sister! I never asked to be the eldest!”
But everything changed a few months later.
Summer arrived, and relatives invited us abroad for holiday. The whole family flew to Spain—for us, it was like a dream. Sun, palm trees, new sights—I soaked it all up, thrilled. Even Ellie and I seemed to get along better.
One evening, we strolled through the hotel gardens. Quiet, peaceful. Ellie walked ahead, brushing her fingers along the hedges like she loved to do back home in our local park. Then—a shriek. Sharp, piercing. I turned to see a snake, small and black-red, slithering into the grass. Ellie stood frozen, swaying within seconds.
On her calf—two tiny, deep punctures. A bite.
Staff swarmed in. Mum and Dad came running. Mum wept; Dad went pale. A doctor arrived, bandaged the wound, tied a tourniquet, tried sucking out the venom. But his voice was grim: “This is serious. The bite’s poisonous. She needs antivenom—*now*.”
Ellie was rushed off in an ambulance. I sat numb, arms wrapped around myself, hollow with terror.
At the hospital, doctors said she needed an immediate blood transfusion and antivenom. But her blood type was rare—AB+. Donors were hard to find. Mum and Dad couldn’t help—they’d just recovered from flu. The doctor hesitated. “Only you’re left. But you’re just ten…”
I didn’t let him finish. “I’ll do it.”
I didn’t know what the procedure would be like. I was scared. But I wasn’t that same girl who resented babysitting. I knew—if anything happened to Ellie, I’d never forgive myself.
In that moment, I grew up. Far beyond my years.
The transfusion was quick. Nurses soothed me; Mum held my hand; Dad stroked my hair. The world shrank to one thought: *Save Ellie.*
Two days later, colour returned to her cheeks. The doctors said, “She’s a tough little thing.” But I thought, *No. I’m the tough one now.*
We spent the rest of the holiday in the hospital. Didn’t matter. She was alive.
Years have passed. Ellie and I are grown. But those days stay with me. That’s when I understood: a sister isn’t a burden. She’s a part of you. Your blood, your soul. And for her, you’d do anything.
Now? We’re not just sisters. We’re best mates. We teach our kids what we learned the hard way: don’t wait for disaster to know who matters. Don’t hold back hugs, kind words, support.
But life has a way of making us learn through pain. The trick is remembering the lesson—and holding onto love. Always.