Standing on an Edge.
Growing up as the eldest sister has imparted upon me a profound understanding of sacrifice. What my parents provided for me was never truly mine alone — it was meant to be shared with my younger sister. Coming from a modest, middle-class family, we were compelled to practice frugality in every aspect of life. Food, money, clothes, even the most basic necessities — we learned to stretch them as far as possible.
I still remember pedaling my bicycle for eight kilometers to reach my primary school, almost every single day. On days when I was running late, my father would dropping me off instead. My grandparents were alive back then, but we don’t really close. They remained distant, uninvolved, even in moments when I longed for a comforting presence as 10 years old kid. But it’s not that the point.
And here I am — standing on an edge.
As my parents finally got better jobs, our household began to stabilize. Life became more comfortable, less constrained. But that was never the real issue. The real issue was that I had always lived on the precipice of deprivation, and somehow, I still do. A remnant of disillusionment that clings to me from the past.
Now, at 22, I earn my own living, yet I currently living with my relatives while my home undergoes renovation. In this house, I am once again the eldest sister, the role model, the one expected to set an example. I now have three younger sisters to care for. Sometimes, I am the babysitter. Other times, I play the role of a temporary mother for them. I handle everything here, and truthfully, I don’t mind because people here are really kinded hearted.
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But then, like an uninvited ghost, an old memory resurfaces. A reminder of how I have always been expected to share — even when everyone already has enough. I have always loved crispy chicken skin. Yet, my sister would peel it off and eat it before I could even take a bite. I had a habit — I would eat the crispy part first, saving the juiciest portion for last. But she always take it from me. She would even get the larger piece of chicken than I did and still steal from my plate. Day by day, I grew to hate chicken skin.
And once again, I find myself standing on an edge.
Today, I bought two pieces of fried chicken — one for myself and one for my boyfriend. Hunger gnawed at me, I had only eaten once since yesterday. As usual, I did my habit— I ate the crispy layer first, saving the most juiciest part for last. But just as I was about to eat it, he took it from me, grinning as if it were a harmless joke.
I am not a selfish person. I never have been. And yet, a deep resentment welled up inside me. I hadn’t expected it to affect me this much. But as I walked home, i’m crying out loud. People glanced at me with concern, as if something grave had happened.
I never told him how I felt. Instead, I let my emotions spill onto this page. Not that it matters — he will never read this. Of that, I am assured.
And so, here I am tonight — still crying over a piece of chicken. But, that’s not the point.
Once more, I am standing on an edge.
