Please, choose each other...

 

The paramedics were strapping me onto the stretcher, the red lights flashing against the neighbor’s garage, and do you know what the loudest sound in the night was?

It wasn't the siren. It wasn't my jagged breathing.

It was you two. Standing in the driveway, arguing over who was supposed to check on me, whose turn it was to drive, who was "too busy" with work.

I closed my eyes and swallowed the lump in my throat, not from the pain in my chest, but from the pain in my heart. I wanted to scream, but I only had the strength to whisper one truth to myself:

“The day I’m no longer here… you will only have each other.”

Listen to me. Please.

I know life in America is hard right now. I know you’re tired. I see the stress in your eyes from your mortgages, the exhaustion from your corporate jobs, the noise of politics that tries to split you apart, and the endless scroll of screens that keeps you distracted.

But I see you fighting over small things as if love is something you can afford to lose. I see you keeping score—who called last, who spent more on Christmas, who Mom loved "best."

But that day is coming. Faster than you think.

The day will arrive when I won’t be the referee. There will be no more Sunday dinners where I force you to sit at the same table. No more Thanksgiving turkeys where I make you put your phones away. No more group texts where I’m the only reason you respond.

And when that quiet Tuesday comes, and the funeral flowers wilt, the only thing left standing will be what you built between yourselves.

It will be love… or it will be a terrifying silence.

Being a brother or a sister isn’t just about having the same DNA or showing up in the same old photo albums.

It’s remembering the time you camped in the backyard when you were ten.

It’s knowing exactly what a glance means across a crowded room without saying a word.

It’s being the only other person in the world who remembers the sound of your father’s laugh or the smell of my Sunday pancakes.

Being siblings means being a sanctuary, not a courtroom. It means being home, not a battleground.

So, while I still have breath in my lungs to ask this of you: Drop the pride.

Whatever old wound you are nursing? Let it go. Whatever political argument you think you need to win? It doesn’t matter. Whatever money you think is owed? It’s just paper.

Call your brother. Visit your sister. Not because you have to, but because the world is a cold place, and you are the only people who share the same history. Forgive each other, even if the apology isn't perfect. Even if they don't deserve it yet.

Don't let a misunderstood text message or a rough holiday turn into ten years of silence. I have seen too many families in this country crumble because pride weighed more than blood.

Because when I’m gone, I don’t want you to grieve me in isolation.

I don't want you standing on opposite sides of my grave. I want you to hold each other up when your knees buckle. I want you to look at each other and say, "We’re okay. We have each other."

That is my peace. That is my calm.

The house, the car, the savings—that is not your inheritance.

Your inheritance is each other.

Please, choose each other... before you no longer have the choice.

Source: The Story Maximalist on Facebook