The World Hasn't Met My Sister Yet….

It Should. Annaka Paige isn't one of those inspirational after school specials.

She's my little sister, and she is brilliant.

She wakes up, smiles at the sun like it owes her something, and then spends her entire day making sure Frank—the floppy eared mutt she rescued from the pound 2 christmas’ ago—gets his second breakfast. If Frank's tail isn't wagging, the day doesn't count.

She plays piano like she's arguing with Beethoven. Every note is a plea—please be gentle with people. The chords she bangs out on the out-of-tune upright in our living room are part apology, part battle cry. She learned the left hand by watching YouTube on her cracked phone, sound off, subtitles on. The right hand she just felt. Said the room told her what to do. The room listened.

Dance class isn't therapy. It's Friday. And Friday means Miss Kay. And Miss Kay is... god to her. Tall. Brunette, beautiful and graceful. Smiles like the world just gave her everything. Annaka walks into that studio like she's walking into heaven. Doesn't care that the other girls are six years younger. Doesn't care that the moves are baby simple. She just wants to be near Miss Kay. Wants Miss Stephanie—her partner in crime—to hold her hand during the hip shakes. She practises in the kitchen. In the hallway. On the sofa. With Frank. With me. With the air. Then comes recital day. We sit in the back. She goes on stage. Lights hit her face. She lights up the world. Arms up. Legs out. Mouth open singing 'Let It Go' off key, too loud, every word. The whole damn room laughs, but it's that laugh where your eyes sting. She twirls. Falls. Twirls again. Miss Kay mouths 'beautiful'. Annaka beams. Miss Stephanie catches her mid-spin. They hug. The song ends. Applause. But Annaka doesn't stop. She keeps dancing. Keeps singing. Keeps living. Miss Kay leans over to me later and says, 'she's not special needs, she's special everything'. And I just nod. Because every week, she rewatches that recital. Every. Single. Time. Sings at the top of her lungs. Dances like nobody's watching. But we are. We're always watching. And we're always wrecked by how perfect she is.

She worries. Not about rent or what the neighbours think, but about whether the man on the bus has enough warmth in his coat. Last week she handed a stranger her own scarf—purple, handmade, irreplaceable. Next morning she froze her ass off. Didn't care. Told me he looked worried. That's Annaka. Worry is her love language.

Money? She spends it on dog biscuits and strawberry ice cream.

House? Doesn't need four walls if Frank has a spot by the fireplace.

Firewood? Only if Dad's stacking it. Beyond that, the only currency she trades in is attention.

She'll look you dead in the eye and hear the bit you're not saying. You're sad? She'll sit next to you, no questions.

You're angry? She'll hum until the knot loosens.

You're nothing? She'll tell you you're her favourite thing until you believe it.

Frank has a vendetta. Against cats. Every. Single. One. He sees them from three blocks away, ears back, tail straight like a metal rod. Annaka calls it the hunt. He bolts. She doesn't stop him. Says they're both free spirits. Shouldn't be tied down. Last week he cornered this fat orange tabby under the neighbour's porch. Cat hissed. Frank just sat. Wagged. Like, yeah, I won, but I'm not gonna eat you. Annaka knelt, scratched behind Frank's ears, told the cat he was safe. Tabby blinked. Frank blinked. Peace treaty. Then he saw a squirrel. Off they went again. Never caught one, mind. But by god, he lives for the chase. Just like Annaka. Always running. Always smiling. Always... home.

That's Annaka. Not a project. Not a cause. Just the purest form of oxygen I've ever breathed. If Google ever figures out how to rank a heartbeat, she'll be number one.

And if the world never notices—well. We noticed. And that's enough for now.

love,

Todd