The Oldest
Angel Green
February 24, 2026
“Are you the oldest?”
People ask me that all the time (it's funny because I too ask this question to people… it must be an ice breaker or something)I never had the time or energy to explain the complicated truth. So I usually just answer,“Yes I am the oldest.”
My mother gave birth to six children. The first four were before me, I don't have memories with them which has caused me to mourn for a childhood that I never got to have. According to her, the very first child, the oldest, was the reason our family fell apart.She blamed him for everything.I always knew that wasn’t true and I always loved my brother, no matter what she said about him. When my mother beat me, she often compared me to him.
“You’re just like your brother” it was never said kindly, She despised him, I’m not sure why, maybe she needed someone to carry the blame or maybe he was the easiest target.
But I do know this, the anger she felt toward him often landed on me. I grew up carrying punishment meant for someone else.
I’ve heard many versions of the story about how CPS took my siblings away. Over the years, the details changed depending on who was telling it. Eventually, I realized something important:
The exact version of that story doesn’t matter anymore.
It doesn’t change what happened. It doesn’t bring back a childhood we didn’t get to share. I can’t turn back time and grow up alongside them.
All I can do now is build something in the present and try to share that with them.
Yes, my mother could be cruel, but I still loved her, she was still my mother. My biological father was never in the picture. My siblings were scattered across different families. It was just me, my younger sister, and her, and I was always terrified that one day we would be separated and taken away.
Back In 2008, my mother was arrested by ICE.
I remember coming home to an empty house. One of my aunts was there waiting for us. This wasn’t the first time something like this had happened.
Dejavu kicked in from when she was detained the first time (I think I was in 5th or 6th grade) , I remember my aunts arguing about who would have to take us in. I remember feeling unwanted. Disposable. Like a burden being passed around. I was scared, and sad , I don't remember what happened or how she got back, I think i blocked some of those memories but what I do remember is that after that, my mother taught us to always be alert.
We would watch our surroundings, memorize phone numbers and address that where not ours (in case someone asked us where we lived)
Sometimes she would hide at the park and “test” us. If we didn’t notice her watching, we got in trouble. Im pretty sure that’s why I still scan every room I walk into lol
Anyways, when she was detained in 2008, I remember visiting her in jail. It was so far away, I think we drove about two hours. Through the glass, she started giving me names and numbers.
“Call these people, tell them this.”
She was convinced that if I passed along her messages correctly, she could get out. I was a child. I couldn’t remember everything. I didn’t understand what was happening and later, when I learned she was scheduled to be deported, I immediately panicked:
“This is my fault” that belief was automatic, someone must have followed me home. All of that training and I still had failed.
My brother had the chance to come get us when all of this happened. She told us that she had called him and asked if he could drive us to the border where we could meet her, but he said no. I was hurt, why wouldn't he want to meet me? I was just like him… Why wouldn't he want to be part of my life?
Years later, when I finally met him in 2020 we talked about that day. I told him how I have always been sad that he didn't want to meet us and that I felt like it was my fault somehow, like maybe taking care of younger siblings was going to be a big inconvenience.
He reassured me that that was not the case,
“Your sisters need you, I need you to call them and apologize for what you did to this family and bring them to me.”
Those where the words told to my brother. He was angry, how could she still blame him and ask him to apologize for something that wasn’t his fault? He ended up sending her money out of guilt to help her out but that was as far as he was willing to help her.
“You know it’s not your fault right?” I told my brother.
“I know” he replies
But sometimes I think he still blames himself based on conversations we have had.
Growing up, I was constantly told I was “just like him.” It was always meant as an insult. So for years, I thought being like him meant being bad.
But the truth is, I’m not like him in the ways she meant.
K first of My brother is AMAZING and I admire him more than he probably knows. He is brave, resilient, and patient. He constantly reminds me that holding onto anger only hurts me. He encourages me to heal, to let go and to move forward.
I used to believe I was a replacement for “the oldest.”
But now I see something different, I'm the younger, hotter, smarter version of him! Lol jk.
I am not the scapegoat, the substitute, the blame.
I am the bridge.
The one rebuilding connection, the one choosing forgiveness without pretending the pain didn’t exist.
The one breaking patterns instead of repeating them.
For most of my life, “the oldest” felt like a role I was forced into.
Now, it feels like something I get to define.
and in this family, in this chapter, I am the oldest.
Not because of birth order.
But because I chose to grow.
I am still becoming.
I am an angel in progress.