I flew across the country for my older sister’s baby—so now my younger sister’s mad I didn’t do the same for her puppy.
I’m 32, living a few states away from the rest of my family. Last month, my older sister Nina had her first child. The second I got the call that she was in labor, I booked a red-eye. Held that baby within hours of him being born. It was emotional.
Two weeks later, my younger sister Jen, who’s 25, adopts a rescue dog. Great. I texted her “congrats” and even Venmo’d her $40 for toys.
Next thing I know, she’s in the family group chat saying, “Nice to know who really cares.”
I asked her what she meant. She replied, “You practically threw a parade for Nina’s baby. I get a dog and you don’t even FaceTime?”
I thought she was kidding. She wasn’t.
She went on about how this dog is her “first real commitment,” how “pet parents are valid too,” and how I’ve “always favored Nina.”
I reminded her that Nina gave birth. That there’s kind of a difference.
She told me that attitude is exactly why she doesn’t want kids—because no one in our family treats any of her milestones like they matter.
At that point, I just stopped responding. I wasn’t trying to start a war. I had diapers to buy and spit-up to dodge.
But the guilt settled in later that night. Not because I agreed with her—but because part of me wondered if I’d brushed her off one too many times.
Jen’s always been a little… intense. Creative, dramatic, always felt things deeper than most. When she was eight, she cried for three days after reading Charlotte’s Web. At twelve, she staged a protest outside the local dog shelter because she heard they put down older animals.
We used to roll our eyes, call her “The Sensitive One.” But maybe that nickname masked something deeper.
Still, I didn’t think this warranted a full-blown grudge.
I gave it a few days. Then I sent a care package—some chew toys, gourmet dog treats, a hoodie that said “Dog Mom AF.” I even added a card with a doodle of her dog’s breed and wrote, “Congrats on your new family member. Hope this little one brings you all the love and joy you deserve.”
She never responded.
Nina said Jen was still upset and barely talking to her either. Apparently, she told our mom that none of us understood her and that she was “done playing the emotional punching bag in this family.”
Which was honestly the first time I’d heard her refer to herself that way.
So, I called. She let it ring.
I tried again the next day. Straight to voicemail.
A week passed. Then another.
Then Nina called me crying. Her baby had to be taken to the ER for a bad fever. She was panicking. Her husband was out of town, and she needed someone to watch the baby’s older cousin—her stepdaughter, who’s five and full of energy.
I booked another flight.
I told Jen I’d be passing through her city during a layover, in case she wanted to grab coffee. Just one line. No pressure.
She replied three hours later with: “We’re busy. Vet appointment. Good luck with Nina.”
That hurt more than I wanted to admit.
It didn’t help that while I was at Nina’s, elbow-deep in burp cloths and making dinosaur mac & cheese for a five-year-old, I saw Jen’s Instagram story.
She had posted a photo of her dog, Peanut, wearing a birthday hat, sitting in front of a pup-cake. The caption read: “At least HE shows up for me.”
Ouch.
A few days later, Nina’s baby was okay. Fever gone. Things settling down.
On the flight back, I thought about Jen. About how she wasn’t wrong—just… not entirely right either.
I grew up seeing life through a certain lens: babies are milestones, dogs are hobbies. But maybe I’d missed the mark on what Peanut meant to her.
Jen lives alone. She works freelance. Her last relationship ended badly. She once told me that silence feels heavier when there’s no one there to talk to—not even a goldfish.
So, I decided to show up.
Not with fanfare. Not with balloons. Just… with intention.
Two weeks later, I drove the five hours to her place. Didn’t even tell her I was coming. Stopped at a boutique pet store on the way and picked up a leash with Peanut’s name on it.
When I knocked, I could hear barking immediately.
Jen opened the door, eyes wide. She looked tired. Not in the I’ve-been-crying way, but the I’m-always-doing-this-alone way.
She didn’t say anything.
“Hey,” I said. “I brought you some overpriced dog treats. Wanna go for a walk?”
She stared at me. Then, without a word, grabbed the leash.
We walked in silence for a bit. Peanut sniffed every tree like it held ancient secrets.
Half a mile in, Jen sighed.
“You really came.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because I should’ve treated this like it mattered to you. And I didn’t.”
She stopped walking. “You think I’m overreacting.”
I shrugged. “I think you’ve been feeling second place for a while. And I made it worse.”
She looked at me, eyes soft. “I just wanted someone to be happy for me.”
“I am,” I said. “He’s adorable. And you’re doing great.”
She smiled, just a little. “He peed on my rug twice yesterday.”
“Sounds like a real baby.”
That made her laugh.
We walked for another hour, just talking. About her job, her neighbors, the puppy training classes that weren’t working. About how lonely it gets when you feel like your choices don’t count because they’re not the ‘big ones.’
That’s when it clicked.
It wasn’t really about the dog.
It was about feeling seen. Feeling valued.
That night, she let me crash on her couch. Peanut slept on my legs. Snored like a grown man.
The next morning, I helped her build a new crate. We had pancakes and played fetch in the yard.
When I left, she hugged me.
“Thanks for coming,” she whispered.
“Sorry it took so long,” I said.
A week later, I posted a picture of Peanut on my own Instagram. Captioned it: “Welcome to the family, little guy. Auntie loves you too.”
Jen commented three heart emojis.
But here’s the real twist.
Six months later, Jen got a call from a friend who was moving to another country and couldn’t take their dog. They asked if Jen could foster temporarily.
That “temporary” turned permanent.
Now she has two rescue dogs—and a whole Instagram page for them, with more followers than I’ll ever have.
She also runs a small side hustle: personalized dog cakes. She ships nationwide.
Guess who helped her set up the website?
And just last month, Nina asked Jen if she could make a special dog-friendly cake for her son’s second birthday—because the toddler is obsessed with Peanut and his dog brother.
They were both invited to the party. Full guest list, matching bow ties, even a peanut butter smash cake.
Watching my nephew try to hug Peanut while Jen laughed beside him—I realized something.
Showing up doesn’t always mean the big things. Sometimes it means listening when it seems silly. Celebrating what matters to them, not just what makes sense to you.
We all walk different paths. Not everyone wants the baby, the spouse, the house. Some want a dog. Or two.
But everyone deserves a little parade now and then.
And maybe that’s the real commitment: caring enough to show up—even when it’s not your version of important.
So, what’s something small that someone did for you that made you feel seen?
Drop a comment below or share this with someone who might need a little fanfare today. ❤️
