I was a princess.
In a literal sense, I was the princess of my family, at least for a short period of time.
From the day I was born, I entered life in the arms of a family who raised me the way I am today. Relying on not only my parents for support but three other girls alongside me.
As the youngest of three fun, confident, and crazy sisters, every moment with them was anything but ordinary. Whether it was annoying my irritated parents, trudging along gossip-filled quarantine walks, or dying of laughter, I love them to no extent.
There were times—when we lived under one roof—yelling could be heard from one corner to the other. Ear-piercing shutters of doors banging closed against the frames would rattle our heedful house. My hot pink Beats by Dre connected to my dad’s iPod Shuffle would shelter my Hello-Kitty pierced ears by blasting old Katy Perry songs into my anxious head.
Not every day was perfect.
On Mondays, arriving home from elementary school, I’d expect to be greeted with affection yet receive the opposite.
On Tuesdays, my sister Lily would open the blanket of her twin-sized bed for my quivering body to crawl in after shaking her sleeping figure awake to heed my nightmare.
On Wednesdays, I’d eavesdrop on Lucy babbling to my concentrated mom while folding piles of laundry with my ear smothered closely to the opposing hallway wall.
On Thursdays, I sat staring out the scenic window of Madeline’s car—Britney Spears playing on the radio—as she drove me to soccer practice.
On Fridays, we simultaneously sat surrounding the kitchen table devouring cheaply made pizza. There was never a serene moment in the kitchen.
On Saturdays, the alarmed doors frequently opened as random friends entered and left our lively home. People always filled our house to its brim.
And on Sundays, we scattered the rooms to rapidly finish homework we procrastinated completing. While I was struggling to remember addition, Madeline scribbled answers to AP Calculus.
Looking back, weeks like these are what I crave the most. To have my sisters ensconced in their rooms, to have Lily hidden under the butterfly sheets of her twin bed placed beside mine in our awfully, green-painted room.
Not every day was perfect; yet, I was able to fall back on the support of three overbearing girls. Three girls who have made me hate myself at times yet wish to keep living the life I was given just to spend one more moment with them.
Now, with only occasional visits and nightly group texts, these memories are in the past. Off at college and living in another state, the only one of four left in the quiet house is me.
I arrive home from high school to a silent house, jerk awake from startling nightmares in my queen-sized bed, eavesdrop on my mom’s gossiping phone calls, drive myself to cheer practice listening to whatever’s on the radio, inhale cheaply-made Little Ceasar’s pizza, meet with friends at the park, and finish my late homework with no one but myself.
With nothing to be blocked out, except for the occasional sounds of my dad’s television, music plays throughout my lonely bedroom. The kitchen is no longer a battlefield of emotional girls but now is only a place for me to ravage the refrigerator.
I no longer was the six-year-old princess being smothered by sisters; the castle I grew up in became vacant of its swarming chaos. I crave now to feel important, not just to my friends or parents but to my distant crazy, sensitive, and inspiring older sisters.