I'm still sorry about the time I slammed the tennis ball so hard that my big sister skidded, lunging toward the net, sliced at air, and fell hard on her pregnant stomach. Any week she could go into labor, her first child, my talented sister, five years my senior, and perfect in all the ways I wasn’t, chasing that shot like the star player she was in college. She didn’t pause before swinging, and the weight of her belly toppled her. 

Game. Set. Match. 

Victory surged through me. I’d beat her at something! 

Then she yelped. 

She was sprawled on the cracked concrete of the old municipal court we’d been playing on, the one behind our house, where we’d volleyed together for years.

 “Shit,” I breathed. Shame quashed my triumph like the sour churn from a spoiled meal. Shame for driving her so hard, for needing to prove I was better. 

While she held her belly like a broken vase, I sprinted to her side. “I'm so sorry.”

 “I'm okay,” she replied. 

“The baby?” 

“Not sure.” 

I took her hand and hauled her up but couldn't meet her eyes. Mom must have heard the commotion because she appeared suddenly from our backyard.

 “What happened?” she asked.

 “Emily hit a tough shot; I lunged and lost my balance.” 

Mom raced to her side, smoothed my sister’s hair, her touch so loving, I ached for it. Then she scowled. “You slammed the ball? What's wrong with you? What were you thinking? She's pregnant!” Her face reddened, her eyes grew fierce. “When are you going to get some sense in you?” 

“I'm sorry,” I said, and I said it again as we stalled in traffic on our way to the ER, and again when my sister whispered, “I think I’m bleeding.” The baby, which earlier had been kicking like a martial artist, had gone still. My mother hit her horn. “Get out of the way!” she shrieked. I slumped in the back seat, swallowing back something acrid and raw. 

Then I apologized for saying yes to a game of tennis with my sister, and again for suggesting we play a match after I’d lobbed her easy balls and saw her falter and miss. I apologized for the sun hitting Mom’s eyes while we tore down the freeway and said sorry when the door clipped my sister’s heels as she and Mom bolted into Emergency. Then I apologized for the cups I filled with water that splashed on their shirts. After a nurse led the two of them toward an exam room and Mom raised her hand like a crossing guard and warned, “You stay here,” as if I carried some contagion, I apologized to the stranger in the restroom while I sobbed in my stall. 

But despite my sister’s fall terrifying me, especially while not knowing if the baby would live or die, I never apologized for winning.

For years her fall haunted me.

But that feeling of victory never did.