Kristina was more than a sister—she was my partner in crime, my little commander of fun. From the moment I could walk, she had a way of turning the simplest moments into adventures. Sometimes she'd take my hand and lead me around the house, pretending we were on a secret mission to save the world. Other times, she would hide behind doors and jump out at me just to make me squeal and laugh.
She was smart, always noticing things I didn't. If I tried to sneak a cookie before dinner, she would catch me every time, sometimes scolding me but with a mischievous grin that made it hard to be mad at her. I learned early that asking for the rest of her food would earn me an exasperated, "FINE! You can have it!"—which, of course, I always did. She was tough, but she had a heart that was bigger than anyone I'd ever met.
Some days, we would sit by the window and watch the rain together. I would ask questions about the world, about people, and about life, and Kristina would answer in ways that were wise beyond her years. Sometimes she made up stories about magical lands where we were the heroes, and I believed every word because she made it feel real. I think those little tales taught me about courage, imagination, and hope long before I understood those words.
Kristina wasn't always gentle. She could be bossy, annoyed, and stubborn—but even then, I knew she loved me. When someone tried to scare me or tell me to do something harmful, she was always there, telling me to be careful, to stay safe, and reminding me that life was precious. Even in play, she protected me, and even in frustration, she taught me lessons I carry to this day.
Our childhood was filled with laughter, silliness, and lessons wrapped in games. She taught me how to be kind, how to stand up for myself, and how to love fiercely. We created a world together—a small universe where we were invincible, where love and protection ruled above all. Those moments built the foundation of a bond that nothing, not even the hardships to come, could ever break.