My first brother was born when I was just two years old. I come from a family with separated parents, and for ten years, it was just the two of us. As the oldest, I took on the responsibility of caring for him. I would help wash his school uniform, make sure he ate, accompany him, help with his homework, and simply be the “older” person he could rely on.

When I was 13, my sister was born, and I cared for her from the time she was a baby—just as I did with each of my younger siblings as they came along.

From a very young age, I would bathe them, clean them, change their clothes, feed them, and watch over their sleep. Since we often put them to sleep in hammocks, I would sit nearby, gently rocking them and keeping them safe. Sometimes, I would sing to them. I helped them learn to walk, to dress themselves, and to write their first little lines when they started school. I brushed their hair, held them in my arms, and often slept beside them.

I gave them their bottles, their medicine when they were sick, their food when they were hungry. I helped pull out their baby teeth when they were loose and supported them with their schoolwork.

I have always been close to them, and they’ve always seen me as a second mother—or at least that’s what they say.