A Useless Sister
Since I was little, I was just a useless human.
Grandma was the one who always said it, every time she looked at me.
She’d shake her head and mutter, “You’re so stupidly clueless it’s driving me crazy.”
“Nothing you do turns out right, no matter what I tell you.”
Every single time those words fell on my ears, I’d slam my mouth shut and stay perfectly still.
Any answer and I’d get beaten even harder for “making excuses” or “talking back” or “crying when I already knew I was wrong.”
So I learned to just… exist.
Even when I stayed quiet, I still got yelled at.
“Why are you standing there like an idiot?”
“You’re too slow, move already.”
“Why are your hands so clumsy? Why did you break the plate?”
“You spilled water everywhere, you worthless rice thief.”
She wasn’t wrong.
I swear I was following her instructions exactly, but my memory and her words never matched.
Maybe she spoke clearly and I just couldn’t understand, or maybe I forgot on purpose because I was that stupid.
Either way, it was always my fault.
I was the rice bug who only knew how to eat.
The fat, ugly, slow, useless girl.
That was me.
And that was probably why, that day…
I didn’t feel sad at all when Mom walked out on us.
It felt almost… normal.
Who would ever want a useless thing like me anyway?
I was just dead weight to her.
Mom had to be miserable too.
She was in a foreign country, barely anyone to talk to, stuck in the countryside watching Grandma’s every move, with a sister like me tagging along.
I looked just like her—same hair color, same eye color, same skin tone.
But I wasn’t pretty.
I was just… weird.
No wonder Mom hated looking at me every single day.
She probably never really believed I was her own daughter.
But what about my little brother?
My only little brother.
A poor kid who got abandoned by Mom because of me.
If I hadn’t been his sister, if I hadn’t been born into this house…
Maybe things would’ve been different for him.
Mom might have stayed longer.
Grandma might have been angrier less often.
And the house might not have turned into this nightmare.
Of course, it was all just my imagination.
But I kept thinking it anyway.
I hated my brother.
Grandma had never liked me from the moment I was born, and Mom started loving him more the second he arrived.
At first I thought it was because he was a baby and babies need everything.
Feeding, changing diapers, holding when they cry…
But I hated it.
Every time Mom held him, I’d stand there uselessly beside them, waiting for her to look at me instead.
She never did.
The baby was small and warm and someone would rush over the second he cried.
I got yelled at for crying, but he got hugs.
So yeah… I hated him.
Grandma spoiled him even more than she’d ever spoiled me.
One sniffle and his face would go stone-cold.
Just a little rice left and she’d worry herself sick.
If he tripped, she’d sprint all the way from the end of the yard.
I got “why are you so clumsy?” for falling.
He got “are you okay?”
That was exactly why I hated him.
Maybe it was because I was too young.
I couldn’t handle Grandma’s hate or Mom’s love shifting completely to him.
I did terrible things I still can’t look at today.
When he was still just babbling, I’d slap his head.
I told myself it wasn’t hard, but he was crying, so it must have hurt.
I’d shove my hand over his mouth to stop him from screaming because the sound was too loud.
When he wiggled, I’d press harder.
“Shut up.”
“Just be quiet, please.”
My hands used to shake just thinking about it now.
After he could walk and run, I’d secretly kick or shove him when Grandma wasn’t looking and Mom was in the kitchen.
In the corner of the yard or inside the house.
He was little, after all.
He cried a lot anyway.
And every time he did, I’d get even angrier.
“Why are you crying?”
“I’m the one who’s more upset.”
“I get yelled at every day and you just cry and everyone feels sorry for you.”
Something like that, I think.
When he followed me around like he liked me, I’d snap at him on purpose.
“You’re annoying.”
“Don’t come near me.”
“Go to Mom instead.”
He’d pout for a second, then come right back behind me anyway.
Probably because he was just a kid and forgot quickly.
I hated that he kept coming back.
Even back then, I knew I was the kind of person who deserved punishment.
And that day was no different.
The last day before Mom left.
She said she had something to do and walked out the door.
Now I see she’d already been packing a tiny bag, her hair neatly tied, and the look on her face when she glanced at me felt like she wanted to say something… but didn’t.
I was too stupid to notice anything like that.
I just figured Mom was leaving the house.
Grandma was off working in the fields too.
Only me and my brother were left at home.
I was supposed to watch him.
Or at least I should’ve said I was watching him.
I sat in the yard instead, staring at bugs crawling through the dirt, poking at bugs stuck to leaves, killing time with pointless things.
At first he played somewhere in the yard by himself.
He dug in the dirt, picked up little stones, and asked how many more times I’d tell him Mom was coming.
I answered vaguely.
“Soon.”
“Wait.”
“Don’t make noise.”
Then he started crying.
My six-year-old brother ran to me and said he missed Mom.
“When is Mom coming?”
“Noona, where did Mom go?”
He kept asking over and over.
I was irritated.
Why was he asking me? I didn’t know either.
And I hated the way his voice cracked while he cried.
Hearing him call for Mom in an empty house made my chest feel weird too, so I shoved him away.
“Shut up.”
He tumbled and stared at me, stunned.
Then he cried louder.
I went inside the house like that.
It was an especially hot day.
Even under the shade my neck was damp with sweat.
I wanted to rest inside.
My brother followed crying the whole way, but I ignored him.
I shut the door, turned my back, and sat in the corner flipping through a picture book.
His crying kept coming.
At first it was right outside the door, then it moved to the yard.
Slowly it got quieter and quieter.
I heard every single second of it.
Even after it stopped, I didn’t open the door.
One hour.
Two hours.
Three hours.
I have no idea how long it really was.
A kid couldn’t keep track of time anyway.
I only knew the sunlight was slowly tilting and the shadows inside the room were stretching longer.
Dust floated over the picture book and all I could hear was insects buzzing in the yard.
At some point his crying just… stopped.
I should’ve gone out then, but I didn’t.
If it had stayed quiet, I might have gotten suspicious.
Instead I felt… relieved.
Finally he was quiet.
And I fell asleep.
When I woke up, the house was silent.
Too silent.
Sunset light poured through the window, turning the whole room red.
Even the pictures in the book looked bright red.
The second I saw it, fear hit me.
I don’t know why, but I just knew something was wrong.
I opened the door and no one was there.
No Grandma.
No Mom.
No brother.
Only then did I start searching for him.
First I checked the room, the kitchen, under the floorboards, even the storage shed.
No answer when I called his name.
My heart started racing fast.
I think I already knew something bad had happened while I was pretending to ignore him.
He was on the ground in the corner of the yard.
At first I thought he was just sleeping.
Curled up, lying on his side, dirt smeared on his hands and cheeks like he’d fallen asleep tired after crying.
Even in an empty house, seeing my brother there made me feel a tiny bit safer.
But he still felt like an annoying burden to me then, so I kicked him with the tip of my shoe.
No reaction.
I kicked him again.
Still nothing.
He was really asleep.
I got closer to look.
That’s when I saw his face.
It was bright red.
Not just flushed.
His whole face looked cooked like it was burning hot.
His lips were dry.
Just getting close made me feel the heat radiating off him.
His breathing was wrong too.
Short, wheezing, sometimes stopping completely.
I finally felt real fear.
A kid my age shouldn’t have looked like this.
Was he… dying?
I knew vaguely what death was even back then, but my whole body shook.
I couldn’t breathe properly.
I didn’t know what to do, so I shook him to wake him up.
Nothing came out at first.
“Wake up.”
“Hey, wake up.”
“Mom’s coming.”
Even lying I knew he’d open his eyes if I said Mom was coming, but he didn’t.
I slapped his cheeks gently at first, then harder.
Still no response.
I finally called his name and started crying.
I thought about running to another house for help, but my legs wouldn’t move.
If I left now, he’d die in the meantime.
And I kept thinking it was my fault.
I shoved him.
I ignored him.
I made him cry.
I was a bad sister.
Those thoughts spun around and around in my head.
I did nothing.
I just cried.
Luckily Grandma came home then.
Crying granddaughter.
Grandson lying on the floor.
At first Grandma didn’t understand what was happening and stopped dead.
The second she saw my brother’s face, her expression changed.
It was the scariest face I’d ever seen from her since the day I was born.
I don’t remember what she screamed exactly, but I remember the voice.
I couldn’t answer.
I just cried.
She screamed at me.
“Stupid girl.”
“Unlucky girl.”
Something about how I ruined everything finally.
It wasn’t wrong.
She slapped my cheek hard.
Then she scooped my brother up and ran outside.
I was left alone.
The house without lights on.
After the sunset disappeared, it was just darkness.
The spot where my brother lay was still visible in the yard, dirt scattered on the floor.
I sat right there and kept crying.
Mom never came back.
Grandma stayed gone for a long time too.
The house felt too quiet.
The quiet was scarier than the crying had been just minutes ago.
From that day on, Mom never came back either.
Yes, my brother changed too.
*
I never changed even after I grew up.
I’d been like this since childhood.
Grades were always at the bottom throughout school, and the kids hated me.
Some bullied me openly, but most just pretended I didn’t exist.
That was actually easier.
I didn’t have to talk back.
I’d never really had a conversation in my life.
If someone suddenly spoke to me, my mind would go blank and I’d just stare with my mouth open.
That turned into stuttering over time.
Nothing improved even as years passed.
The moment I tried to talk, fear would hit first.
What if I got it wrong?
What if they got angry?
What if I sounded stupid?
The only thing I actually knew how to do was housework.
After ten years of living with Grandma, those tasks were automatic.
I guess being around her that long made it easy.
Even after I became an adult, it didn’t change much.
Right after high school, I started working at a company.
I became the company’s joke within days.
It was only natural.
I was bad at thinking, bad at talking to people, and I knew nothing.
At first people tried to help.
“Do it like this.”
“Put that over there.”
“Try again if you mess up.”
But I couldn’t remember anything I heard once.
Even if I wrote it down, I’d forget where.
If I asked again, I’d watch their face first.
Was it okay to ask now?
Would they get mad if I asked the same thing twice?
I’d end up asking no one and messing it up alone.
And they’d scold me for it.
After being scolded, I’d think I should ask next time.
Then the next time I asked, they’d scold me for asking the exact same thing again.
Who would like a woman who asks the exact same question every single time she’s taught?
I probably repulsed them too.
Once I left home, the ugly parts of me stood out even more.
Before, all I had to do was listen to Grandma.
There was a set rule for everything, and if I messed up, she’d scold me and fix it right away.
Now I had to decide everything myself.
When is the electricity bill due?
How do I send the rent?
Why is my phone bill so high?
Which hospital should I go to when I’m sick?
What should I eat after work?
What should I do on days off?
Even the small things were all up to me.
That scared me.
Even when work ended, I didn’t feel safe.
If anything, going home made me even more anxious.
Hours with no one telling me what to do felt endless.
At least the company had been easier.
Just do what you’re told.
But that didn’t last long either.
Constant scolding.
Constant mistakes.
Constant running around in panic.
The people who used to teach me eventually started sighing every time my name was called.
The air around them got a little colder.
When someone laughed, it was probably at my expense.
When someone spoke in a low voice, it felt like they were mocking me.
I don’t know if they really were, or if I just imagined it.
Either way, after a few years I couldn’t keep going anymore.
One ordinary morning, the alarm rang like always.
I showered, got dressed, and didn’t eat breakfast.
The thought of food in my stomach made me nauseous.
I slung my bag over my shoulder and stood in front of the door.
I reached for the handle.
But the door wouldn’t open.
I thought it was broken.
Then I realized.
Yes, this was the day I was broken.
The lock was open, the door was properly set to lock, but I couldn’t leave.
One step forward and I should have been able to go.
But that one step didn’t happen.
I had to leave.
I couldn’t be late.
I had to call in sick somehow.
But my body wouldn’t listen.
My chest tightened, my fingertips went cold, my legs started shaking on their own.
No one was pressing my throat, yet I couldn’t breathe.
I collapsed right in front of the door, bag still on my shoulder.
I don’t know how long I stayed there.
My phone rang.
It was the company.
I didn’t answer.
I couldn’t answer.
Just seeing the company name on the screen made my heart race too fast.
The calls kept coming, but I kept ignoring them.
From that day on, I never left the house again.
At first I thought I’d just take one day off.
Tomorrow I’d be fine.
But the next day didn’t work either.
Nor the day after that.
Every time I stood in front of the door, my chest would tighten.
I could hear people on the other side.
Looking at me, checking on me, waiting to see if I’d mess up again.
I know it’s ridiculous now, but that’s how it felt back then.
After that, it was just the same day repeating over and over.
Eat at home, scroll on my phone, sleep.
The next day, exactly the same.
At first I could tell day from night by the sunlight.
But as time went on, even that became blurry.
I’d stay up scrolling at night until dawn, then sleep a little in the morning and wake up in the afternoon, then it would turn night again.
At some point I stopped opening the curtains too.
If I saw outside, I thought I had to go out.
And the thought of going out made my chest tighten again.
Luckily, just having my phone was enough for most things.
Delivery food, groceries, phone bills, rent transfers.
The only problem was garbage.
Since I couldn’t leave, it kept piling up.
I eventually shoved it all onto the balcony as a temporary fix.
Everything seemed fine after that.
But I knew.
This life couldn’t last forever.
The garbage was piling up, but I at least understood I needed money.
The rent kept getting deducted every month and my bank balance shrank.
I didn’t have much saved because I’d been sending money to Grandma.
But I had a little saved up anyway.
No hobbies, no people to meet, so I’d saved a bit.
I also had my severance pay.
After a while with no contact, a message came saying I’d been laid off.
I checked the bank app online and found the money was still there.
The amount was more than I expected.
It was a factory that ran shifts almost every day without rest.
But the money started disappearing faster than I thought.
A few deliveries.
Rent a few times.
Utilities.
Phone bill.
The numbers quietly went down.
Then the landlord contacted me.
He knew things couldn’t go on like this either.
I knew it too.
But I just stayed inside anyway.
The thought of leaving made my body freeze up.
When I tried to look for a job, the faces of the old coworkers came to mind.
The sighs, the irritated voices, the pause when I asked the same question again.
Those things.
I kept holding on like that.
Then one day…
A call came.
Grandma had passed away.
When I heard the news, I felt a little surprised.
More than sad, more than scared, the first thought that crossed my mind was simple.
I have to go.
That was the thought that came first.
Why?
For the first time in a long time, I packed clothes.
Changed into fresh underwear, found an outfit I could actually wear outside instead of my stretched T-shirt.
I tied my hair roughly, grabbed my wallet, and put on my shoes.
I stood in front of the door.
I reached for the handle.
I thought I’d feel my chest tighten again, my legs shake.
But no.
Nothing like that happened.
The door opened easily, and there was zero fluttering in my chest as I stepped outside.
It had been such a long time since I’d left the house at all.
*