ABSTRACT
I was looking at my sister from out of the corner of my eye while slipping on my dress. She was pretending not to watch me but I sensed that she was on the lookout for some failing. As soon as she would see me hopelessly struggling with the long row of buttons, she would hasten to say: “I knew you would not be able to manage on your own. Let me handle this.” She did not mean to be wicked; she only wanted to help me out, my mother would plead. However, my older sister’s innate sense of superiority irritated me. I was 4-and-a-half-years old; she was just about 8. I would have liked to manage without her help but it was not always possible. I could not yet reach the light switch. No matter how much I stretched on tiptoe in an extreme effort to reach for the switch, I was unable to turn on the light. I would then call her and she would come running. She derived some sort of pride from this which left me slightly piqued. Every day, I hoped to gain a few centimeters in height. Alas! If I was sometimes told that I had put on weight, I was seldom told that I had grown taller. Therefore, at times, I had the distinct sensation that the world was definitively set, frozen; that I would always be 4 and a half while my sister was 8; that I would forever remain in this state of inferiority. All this filled me with impatience and anger. On top of it, I only had the right to wear my sister’s hand-me downs, her worn dresses and shoes, and I could only play with Colin, her old celluloid little baby that had at some point closed its eyes forever when falling asleep. The doll only had two holes left where the eyes should have been; they had fallen inside its hollow head and they tinkled like a bell if one was not careful. It was much too unfair!
