The Oldest Daughter

I grew up fast — not by choice, but because someone had to. I held bottles before I held dolls, rocked babies before I was ever rocked. While they stumbled, I stayed steady. While they cried, I wiped my own tears in silence. They call me mature, but I was just tired. They say I’m strong — but I never had a choice. They were allowed to be kids. I was the glue. The second mother. The one who “should’ve known better.” I was never just a child. I was the oldest daughter. And that meant sacrificing my childhood so they could keep theirs.