There was a time I thought of myself as a child abandoned in a storm—no hand to pull me up, no one to listen. In those days, I lay alone in my room, the wind pounding against the window like the echo of my own resentment. I was bitter. I was angry. I blamed even the sky for birthing me only to let me carry every injustice, while others—while my younger sister—were allowed to live the childhood I never had.

I once believed you didn’t love me.
I asked myself:
Why didn’t my parents fight for me?
Why didn’t they shield me the way other parents shield their children?
Why was I the one to suffer in my sister’s place?
Why was family the very thing that drove me into life’s dead ends?

Back then, my heart had no answers—only layers upon layers of despair, pressing down like boulders on a fragile soul.

But now, as I write these words, I understand.

Without those storms, perhaps I would never have become the person I am today—a person bruised and broken, yet capable of forgiveness. Flawed, but still capable of love.

I once thought I was a failure. I blamed you—often for things that weren’t truly your fault. But now I realize, even if you were wrong… it was through that very wrongness that I learned how to look within.

Because if I hadn’t had the capacity to hurt others, perhaps you wouldn’t have chosen to sacrifice me to protect them.
Your silence, at times, wasn’t a lack of love—
It was a lack of choice.

You let go of me to preserve the last ounce of peace for the family, for the relatives, even for those who never deserved it. That wasn’t favoritism—it was helplessness.

I used to think you feared hardship, feared poverty. But now I know:
You feared that I would be poor, that I would suffer.
And above all, you feared that if you once stood up for me—and lost everything: honor, kinship, stability—then the very bond called “family” would be reduced to nothing.

Because if love becomes a reason to inflict pain, then that love is no longer love—it is poison.

And you, my sister—
The little girl who was once the light of my childhood—are probably someone else now.
Someone with love, with friends, with joy.
Someone who no longer looks back to find the sister who once sheltered you, who once bore it all alone.

I know, you have your own wounds.
Maybe you think I’m selfish.
Maybe you think I don’t deserve your love.
Maybe, in your eyes, I was never a good sister.

But dear sister…

Everything I did—I thought of you first.
Whether protecting, sacrificing, or enduring—I never did it for myself.
I only wanted you to have the childhood we both should’ve had.
And if there’s one thing I regret most, it’s making you grow up too fast—to bear the love I should’ve given our parents.

Yes, I’m a fool.
A fool who didn’t know how to express love, who couldn’t protect herself, and even more so, couldn’t make you understand that—

I love you.

Not in sweet words, but in quiet persistence:
Like a sigh in the night.
Like the silent figure standing outside your classroom when you were bullied—never stepping in, only watching—because she knew if she entered, you’d be embarrassed.

You loved our parents in my place.
You did what I didn’t have the courage to do.
And now, if I could go back, I would never let you endure that burden alone.

You deserve a happier life than mine.
And if fate demands I pay the price, then I’ll live in the shadows—
So long as you can walk in the light.

I will continue to care for our parents as you once did for me.
Not as repayment.
But as redemption.

And even if we never become close again—
Even if the cracks between us never heal—
I hope that this apology and this thank you will not come too late.

Whether or not you forgive me, whether or not you choose to return or move forward alone, is your right.
I ask nothing.
I beg for nothing.

I only hope you understand:
Only forgiveness and compassion can cure the poisons of hatred and selfishness.
But if you cling to the pain like a protective charm…
The one who suffers most won’t be me, won’t be our parents—it will be you.

Because no chain is crueler than the one forged by our own hearts.

Mother, father, sister—

Today, I am no longer that child crying in the dark.
I am a survivor—not thanks to anyone,
but because of everything you unknowingly sowed.

And from those broken pieces,
I’ve rebuilt myself into someone who knows how to love—
Even if that love came late.

If there is one thing I wish for, it is this:

Live truthfully with one another, while there is still time.

Because one day, when apologies and thank-yous are only flowers laid on gravestones—
It will all be too late.