The Sibling Question

I was an only child, which basically meant I was a spoiled brat. No one to share anything with—the cookies, the Nintendo, my own room, all of it was mine. My friends were always complaining about their siblings, about not having space to themselves. But even as kids you could tell there was something underneath the complaints. A connection. Someone who understood you just because they’d lived in the same house, dealt with the same parents, got the inside jokes without needing explanation.

I wonder sometimes what that would’ve felt like. A brother or sister. Someone to stay up with at night, to fight with, to have on your side just because of shared DNA. Not parents—they’re obligated to care. Someone closer than that.

There’s something absurd about the trade-off: I got everything a kid could want in terms of freedom and space, but I was always alone in it. I ate all the snacks. I didn’t have to negotiate with anyone. And it felt hollow sometimes, honestly.

But here’s the thing: I have no idea if siblings are actually good or if that’s just something people tell themselves. Maybe my friends were right and it’s mostly annoying and claustrophobic. Maybe the bond is real and I’m missing something essential. Maybe I’m lonelier than I needed to be, or maybe I just ended up differently because I had to be alone.

I’ll never know what it would’ve been like to have someone forced to stick around, someone to share the weight of growing up with. Some days that feels like a loss. Other days I’m grateful I didn’t have to compete for anything. But you can’t know what you never had, so the question just sits there.