I Didn’t Mean To Leave You Too: For My Sister

I ran.
Not for drama. Not for revenge.
I ran because I was drowning.
Because the house was on fire
and all I could smell was the smoke.
Because if I stayed,
I would have turned to ash
just to keep everyone else warm.

So I saved myself.
I clawed my way out of the quicksand—
nails bloodied, soul in tatters—
and I ran
with nothing but the frantic drumbeat
of survival in my chest.

But in my desperate escape,
I didn’t see who I left behind.
I didn’t look over my shoulder
to see your face
watching me disappear.

I didn’t just leave them.

I left you.

And that truth has sat
like a stone in my ribcage
every day since.

Because you—
you were innocent.
You were good.
You were soft laughter and open hands,
and I abandoned you in the storm
while I searched for sunlight.

Years passed.
I made a life.
Built something from the rubble.
And when I could finally breathe again—
when my hands stopped shaking long enough
to offer something instead of only asking—
I came back around.

I reached out.
Tentatively.
Hopefully.
Heart in my throat,
I asked if you still wanted a sister.
If your children still wanted
an Aunt and Uncle.
If your grandchildren might want
a Graunt and Gruncle—
those ridiculous, beautiful titles
that made us laugh like we used to.

And without hesitation,
you said yes.
You didn’t just open the door—
you opened your whole heart.

You stitched me back into the fabric
of your family,
thread by thread,
like the tear had never been there at all.

That kind of forgiveness
is a sacred thing.
It is the holiest grace I have ever received.
And I want your sons to know—
every one of them—
how much it means.
That their mother gave me back
something I thought I had lost forever.

I want you all to know
that even in my absence,
I carried them.
In the stories I told,
in the quiet prayers I whispered
to no one but the stars.

And I want you to know—
you, my sister, my first friend—
that I see it all now.

I see the pain I caused
in my flight.
I see the hole I left
when I vanished.

And I am sorry.

But more than that—
I am grateful.
Grateful beyond the reach of words
for the miracle of being welcomed back.

For being allowed
to love you again.
To stand in the circle of your life
and be counted as family.

I didn’t mean to leave you, too.
But I did.

And you—
in all your quiet strength—
let me come home.

And I will spend
the rest of my life
earning that grace.