“Daddy’s girl”. That’s what you would call me. Back then, I would take that as a compliment. I would do anything for your validation. Now, I wish it was impossible to tell that we are related. By the way we sit while eating breakfast or the way we both hate mayo with a passion. It is the biggest slap in the face when anyone points out the little similarities that remind me how all 23 of your chromosomes are inside of me. Every day, it seems as if you wish you could be 15 again. No priorities, no path, just living in the present. How would you know that thirty years later, you would be trapped in the same cycle, with the only achievement you hold on to is me. 

In this picture that grandma gave to me, you glide through the water without a care in the world. In all of my years of knowing you, I have never seen a bigger smile plastered onto your face. Free from all issues. You look like your fun, free-spirited self. Someone anyone would want to be friends with because they always make it a good time. The glowing sun is nothing compared to the way your face radiates with joy at this moment. Adventurous, wild, but still vulnerable like anybody else.

Your problems caught up to you as you sprint away with your eyes closed. How could you lie to yourself when you know you need help? Every day, you put mom through so much pain, and I either want to knock you to the ground or pick you up and help you through your problems. The imprint you left on the couch has become more and more visible as you continually avoid your problems and the people that are there for you. You can’t lie about who you are forever. You are the type of person who puts up a front, but underneath it all, you are alone, sucked into a rip current that leaves you stranded out at sea. 

I have your eyes. As blue as the sea that drowns you and each time I look into them, I see my distorted reflection. The reflection of someone I don’t recognize. 

Do I inevitably become her or am I already this person I see through your eyes? 

Is this how you see me?

When Mom gets mad at me, she always reuses the same line. The only line that hurts so bad, it feels as if I’m being punched in the gut. “You are just like your father.” Every time I don’t put my dirty plate in the dishwasher or clean my room, I can feel Mom’s disappointment linger in the air. I feel trapped, subconsciously following in your footsteps, slowly falling down the deep path of someone I wish to never become. You still think I see you as my protector, but all I see is the person I try so hard not to become.