Even or Odd Amount of Blueberries

I used to always say that having three children completed the idea of what family meant to me—the rhythm, the dynamic, the sibling bond. There’s something about that number that always felt balanced, like it gave just the right mix of chaos and companionship.

There was a time when my sister and I lived in the same city for a few months, and she enrolled her daughter in the same school as my son. Despite living in different cities before that, our children were already close—FaceTiming, playing online games, growing up in sync even at a distance. Her daughter and my son were only six months apart, and we used to joke that they looked like twins. Honestly, they still do.

Over the years, we shared a tight bond with my sister and her daughters. We experienced every phase together—from toddlerhood to early adolescence. We did a wide range of activities, but truthfully, we didn’t need to do much to feel joy in each other’s company. It was one of those effortless connections rooted in comfort and familiarity.

One day, my niece was at school and wasn’t feeling her best emotionally, so she went to the nurse. They couldn’t reach my sister, so they called me. I tried calling her too—no answer. They were in a new city, a new school, and my niece didn’t have her father around. I knew the emotional weight she was carrying, and I wanted to step in—not to replace anyone, but to fill the emotional void until her mom could be reached. That’s what I do when I love someone—I just show up.

So I brought her home with me and decided we’d bake blueberry muffins together. I’ve always been a baker at heart, and I thought it might help her feel grounded and uplifted. She needed to get out of her head and into something warm and familiar. To me, caring for a child includes their emotional and mental well-being. If they’re in my care, I don’t just babysit—I nurture.

But that small act—that quiet moment of connection—somehow lit a fire between my sister and me. It bruised her ego in a way I didn’t expect. Her daughter’s natural display of happiness in my home felt threatening to her, as though she couldn’t keep up or compete with what she thought I was offering.

The truth is, we’ve always led very different lives. Our parenting styles, our homes, the way we cook, clean, spend time—it’s all different. I gravitate toward natural settings and products, even if it takes longer. I find peace in slower, intentional living. But none of that was ever meant to be a comparison.

Her insecurities, especially in the context of her marital struggles and sense of control, made it easy to project those fears onto me. But I was never trying to take her place. I was just trying to be there for a child who needed comfort. That’s it. That’s all.

There was this strange, almost unspoken pattern that began to unfold between my sister and me. A weird sequence of events where her energy would shift into something awkward, tense, almost cold—but never directly confrontational. She wouldn’t say anything outright, but her body language, her shortness, the subtle jabs or silences—it all spoke louder than words.

And yet, somehow, even in those moments where it was obvious she was upset or threatened, she would still take from me. My time, my presence, my help. She still leaned on me—without acknowledgment, without reciprocity. And no matter how much I gave, the energy always felt lopsided. I wasn’t keeping score, but I started to feel the imbalance.

It’s funny how people assume that if your schedule isn’t pinned to a time clock, you must be free. As if not having a 9-to-5 means your hours belong to everyone else. But just because my responsibilities weren’t conventional or outwardly validated doesn’t mean they weren’t real. My work, my presence, my choices—they all required attention, commitment, and a full heart. I just didn’t need a punch card to prove I was showing up.

I value family dynamic deeply and I never measure my efforts by obligation, but by love. Yet that love often felt exploited. Like she couldn’t fully celebrate my strengths without comparing them to her own challenges. And instead of leaning in with humility or gratitude, she’d pull away with pride, resentment, or indifference—but only after collecting the parts of me that served her needs.

It became emotionally exhausting, navigating a bond that was both close and fragile, supportive yet strained. I never stopped loving my nieces or wanting to be a positive presence in their lives. But the emotional toll of being both a safe place and a silent target—that’s the part no one really sees. Especially when your youngest niece turned out to be my children's sibling.