I remember a few months ago when we were at the mall. A group of guys my age were being loud and obnoxious, accidentally bumping into people. One of them nearly knocked me over. Before I could even square my shoulders, Maya stepped forward.

The most interesting part of the "tall younger sister" story isn't just the height—it’s the shift in protection. When we were kids, I was the one who chased away mean dogs and dealt with spiders. Now, the roles have blurred.

She usually wanders in, looking bored, and reaches up with an arm that seems to go on forever. She’ll set the bag on the counter, pat me on the head—which she knows I hate—and say, "Anything else, Little Brother?" "I’m older," I remind her every single time.