I Hope They Die First

Most of all, I hope my mom dies first.

As her youngest child, born immediately after she lost you, the beloved first-born, I witnessed firsthand what grief to that degree can do to a person. I was created with it; the result of an unimaginable situation our mom could only make sense of mathematically. If you lose one daughter, you add another. Less than a year later, she did. And as I sank into baby clothes damp with their tears, I developed a deep understanding of true sorrow, your first and only birthday gift to me.

Withstanding the loss of another child is not something she would willingly survive. So, as much as it would hurt to lose her, the thought of her navigating this world without two of her babies, a mother with a free hand she doesn't want, hurts more.

And while I'm wishing for things, I hope my sister dies next.

She's looked for you in every man she's ever loved and in the face of every child she's borne. The only way fate could possibly contort itself any crueler would be by forcing her to endure such heartbreak a second time. Your last birthday gift to her was the title of oldest daughter. If I die before her, she would have reigned as youngest, oldest, and only daughter in one lifetime, much too big of an ask for anyone.

In many ways, I am lucky. My birthright is rooted in purpose, something many go their whole lives without. After all, what was I made for if not to help carry their grief? I often spend time trying to assess how successful I've actually been in this endeavor. Has my mere existence provided real comfort or have I been a constant reminder of what was lost? Did they look at me as a baby and regret, if only momentarily, that I wasn't a replication of you? And when I turned seventeen, did they hold their breath for an entire year wondering if the curse had been lifted?

God only knows that if we could switch, I'd agree in a second, giving you a quick hug as we crossed paths and whispering in your ear, "They're waiting for you." Because if, God forbid, I am the first one to die, when they see both of us again, I know that it is you they will run to first.

And so, I pray. I pray that they die before me because while I cannot ever undo their pain, I can endure their loss so that they won't have to survive mine. And at the very end, I imagine that I will hand it all back to God and he might say, "Good work." Maybe you will too.