Everyone Is Someone’s Hero
Adorable Children, Home, Homework, Impossible Demands, Siblings, UK | Related | January 2, 2022
I’ve been having a really bad day, though not for any particular reason. I’m just in a grump. I’m still in a grump when my little sister comes home from primary school. She wants to tell me something, and even though I’m not in the mood, I do my best to not get frustrated while trying to understand her.
Talking is difficult for her due to a multitude of health issues, so I’m leaving out the back and forth of figuring out what she is saying and just typing what she wanted to say.
Sister: “We had to write about our heroes in class today.”
Me: “Oh, dear, I hated doing that. Could you think of anyone to write about? I could never think of anyone.”
Sister: “No, I thought of a person.”
Me: “Good for you.”
Sister: “Will you read it?”
Me: “Now?”
She starts getting something out of her bag.
Me: “Ah, uh, well… I’m not really—”
Cue disappointed puppy-dog eyes.
Me: “Erm, maybe after dinner? My eyes are a little, uh, tired right now is all.”
Sister: “Okay!”
I muddle my way through cooking and eating dinner, not looking forward to the effort reading her handwriting is going to be — not that mine is any better. I’m just being a complete butthole about it.
After we’ve eaten, she brings me her exercise book.
Me: “You want me to read this out loud, or am I okay to just read it in my head?”
Sister: “That’s fine.”
I begin to read.
Book: “My hero is [My Name].”
I pause. That can’t be right. I reread the first sentence. She can’t possibly mean me. Who is this other person who has my extremely rare name that she has met and thinks is her hero?
Book: “[My Name] is my sister.”
I look up at her.
Me: “Me?”
My sister nods vigorously, and I return my attention to her book. I read compliment after compliment about how she thinks I’m smart, about how I make her laugh, and about how grateful she is for me looking after her. And as I read these words that don’t feel true to me, I’m crying with a hand clamped over my mouth to stop the noise.
When I finish, I look up at her. She looks concerned, probably because I’m really not supposed to be crying over this.
Me: “Cuddle?”
It was a good cuddle.
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