The Invisible Burden of the Eldest Daughter

Mother’s Day includes more people than you’d think

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My brother was the adventurous type. Growing up as a Gen X kid with little adult supervision and far too much energy, getting injured was just par for the course for his childhood.

When he came home one day after a bike accident, yet another trip to the emergency room led to having a cast on one of his legs. We were just grateful he wasn’t covered in blood. This time.

I was always considered the clean-up crew as far as his injuries were concerned. As a child, I was the one trying to get my toddler brother’s finger out of a partially opened can. My mother was too freaked out to even stop me from making the situation worse. I didn’t realize that I needed to push the lid down and not try to lift it up.

I was four. I did the best I could. At least the doctors were able to save his finger.

Years later, it was up to me to clean and dress the gash on his leg that resulted from a different day spent roaring around town on his bike. Mom, again, was too upset, so she called on me as a young teen to see to him. That injury resulted in 21 stitches and a permanent scar on his thigh in the shape of the letter J.