“I got the Barbie Dream House!” my sister squealed as we squeezed into a tiny hospital room at Yale. Grateful just to be together, my parents had brought a fake tree, and friends and family made sure that small space overflowed with wrapped gifts. At the time, I was sure Santa had found us. In reality, our community had. What began as their gift to us became the strength I now share with others. Unfortunately, this wasn’t my sister Madeline’s first battle with leukemia. She was first diagnosed at four years old with ALL, and after 2.5 years of chemotherapy, we found ourselves back at Yale again, where her eighth Christmas would be spent. This time she was diagnosed with Secondary AML, a much stronger monster. It truly wasn’t fair, but Madeline is the one person who would never say those words. Being only twenty months younger, I looked up to everything she did. Madeline shaped my mindset and modeled a strength no child should have to possess. In return, I provided her with normalcy. Together, we escaped. Sometimes as animals, sometimes as doctors or zookeepers, but mostly just as typical kids. Although nothing about our lives was normal, Madeline taught me one rule that still defines me. Pity was not allowed. Almost a year later, it was Christmas again. Madeline had endured chemotherapy so intense she couldn’t open her eyes for days. A bone marrow transplant took us to Boston, where the Ronald McDonald House became our new playroom. That Christmas, we were told there was nothing more the doctors could do. Because Madeline’s courage had traveled far, people from around the world asked what she wanted for her “final wish.” They offered trips and extravagant experiences. But Madeline had spent most of her life sick, so she understood what truly mattered. She told us she wanted to be home with us and that there was nothing more she needed. Instead, she asked that people donate toys to Yale in her honor, knowing how much those moments of joy had meant to our family and so many others. And the toys poured in! I’ll never forget the look of pride on my sister’s face when she saw what she did for others. That was Madeline’s last Christmas with us. But her wish, which was rooted in selflessness, never left me. Years later, my role as little sister has changed. I have worked hard through my grief to turn it into action. And I remind myself that pity isn’t a word we believe in. In my sister’s memory, I now direct an annual local toy drive, coordinating with more than fifteen businesses and countless volunteers. Each year, thousands of toys fill our home before filling the hospital. Drop off day is powerful. Volunteers share stories of loss, and thank us for giving them a way to help heal. As we sort donations from teens to babies, from games to dolls, I always pause at the little girls’ toys, smiling at the ones Madeline and I would have loved. The child-life specialists we once knew now tell me stories of children who find comfort knowing that joy can come from someone who understands hardship. Each year, standing in the hospital lobby, my eyes drift up to the seventh floor and into that tiny room we once sat with our tree. I imagine another little girl opening gifts beside her big sister, believing Santa found her too. And I remind myself that grief did not break me. It taught me how to turn love into action, just as my sister showed me

I wasn’t sure it was possible for two little girls to heal a hurt frog, but my sister and I proved otherwise. Even though she was sick for many years of our childhood, she always put animals first, especially the ones who needed her most. My sister Madeline and I were only 20 months apart. So much of our childhood is remembered surrounded by animals. It almost felt like we found them—but really, I think they found us. And it was always the ones who needed help: the bunny stuck in the rock wall, the toad with a broken leg, the baby bird that fell from the tree. Madeline connected with them in a way beyond her years. She knew what it felt like to hurt. She understood what it meant to rely on others for survival. She taught me how to care for them, how to comfort them. We’d sing to them, create little habitats, and when they were healed, we’d release them back into nature. Back where they belonged. This caretaking went on for years. As doctors tried to cure Madeline’s incurable leukemia, she quietly tried to heal every wild animal that came her way. I remember one car ride in particular, after a difficult appointment. She was looking out the window when she said, “When I get to Heaven, I’m going to open a pet shop.” We spent the rest of the ride dreaming up what it might look like. She said if people knew she was running the pet shop in Heaven, they wouldn’t be as sad about losing their animals. Madeline was taken from me not long after that conversation. I think Heaven must have needed a new business owner. But I know she held true to her word. If she were still here, the business we would create would be that pet shop she imagined. We’d take in hurt animals and love them. We’d partner with a local veterinarian for medical care. In fact, I think we’d go even further. We’d work with a nearby hospital to connect sick children to those animals, for visits and for comfort. Madeline taught me that helping something else heal can help you, too. On her hardest days, she was often the most devoted to her animals. When she couldn’t ease her own pain, she eased theirs- and that brought her peace. This pet shop wouldn’t just be about animals. It would be about resilience, empathy, and the power of selflessness. While our Earth-bound shop remains a dream, I know the one in Heaven is already up and running. And Madeline is at the heart of it, just as she imagined.

In the moment it felt like a scene from a movie. Seven-year-old me standing in our yard beside Santa, staring into a sea of faces singing carols for my sister. She peeked from behind the curtain, bald and with a small smile. My job at that moment was clear: to shift the attention away from her. So I sang loud and proud, and held back the tears, and did exactly as she had instructed. Days earlier, news outlets had reported that my nine-year-old sister, after five years of battling two kinds of leukemia, didn’t have long left with us. The heartbroken community asked her final wish. She answered without hesitation: “I have everything I need. Please, help the other children in the hospital and send them toys for the holidays instead.” That was my last Christmas with her. But her selflessness shaped me in everlasting ways. She gave her final wish so others could smile. And I have carried that giving spirit forward ever since. Each year, I’ve led a toy drive for Yale Children’s Hospital in her honor. I’ve partnered with 15 local businesses to collect and deliver toys. Her selflessness lives on with this project, and in every toy donated, I feel her presence. But the drive is not the only way I carry on her wishes. It’s in how I live every day. My sister didn’t want her illness to define her. So I promised her (and myself) to not let her passing define me. Instead, I let how she lived guide me. Every day, I lead with kindness and empathy. As captain of two sports teams, I support the underdogs and encourage everyone. Paying it forward is a daily mission. Staying positive and helping others doesn’t mask the pain, but instead honors the love behind it. Sibling loss is deep because love is deep. To truly love someone, even when they leave, we must honor them. I often imagine her looking down at me—with pride, love, and that same quiet smile. Her influence shows in each act of compassion I perform, big or small. Whether it’s helping teammates feel included, in delivering toys to families or being a good role model to my little brother, I am always holding my heart and hands open for others. My sister’s final Christmas wish wasn’t just a toy drive, it was a life lesson. Her lesson was to prioritize others, even at the end. That lesson guides me now—and always will. I honor her by living like she did. With generosity, courage, and love.