Through the Glass: Seeing the Sibling in the Shadows

Jude

I first heard the term glass sibling shortly after my twins were diagnosed. The phrase refers to the brothers and sisters of children with disabilities—children who, though not medically fragile themselves, often become fragile in other ways. They're called “glass” not because they break easily, but because people tend to look through them.

At the time, my son was only three. The twins had just been born after 76 days of hospital bedrest, and I was acutely aware of the time and attention that had already been diverted from him. Still, I thought—naively—that love would be enough. I love my son fiercely. I’m obsessed with his stories, his wit, his big feelings, his wild imagination. I couldn't imagine a reality where he might ever feel unseen.

But love, I’ve come to realize, doesn’t always prevent the glass from forming.

As the girls have grown and their medical complexities have taken shape, I’ve begun to see our world through his eyes. From his point of view, people are constantly coming over to see his sisters. Therapists, nurses, caregivers—an endless stream of adults focused on their needs. And yes, their presence allows my husband and me the time to focus on him: to take him to soccer, hip hop, LEGO club, to read books and build epic forts. We divide and conquer, we show up in every way we can. But still—I wonder what he sees.

Does he see a home filled with support, or a spotlight that never seems to turn his way?

Now seven years old and starting second grade at a gifted academy, my son is bright, sensitive, and endlessly creative. He’s the kind of kid who see that his Daddy is stressed and offers strategies to help him get through it, saying things like: "Just do one thing at a time." He’s full of curiosity and compassion, but he’s also perceptive—and that perception is what shapes his reality, not my intentions.

When we go out as a family, the girls often need more attention. They might need suctioning, repositioning, calming. Sometimes, he waits. Sometimes, he helps. Sometimes, he just looks away.

And I ask myself—am I doing enough?

I don’t know the answer. Maybe we’ll find it out someday in a therapist’s office. Or maybe, just maybe, he’ll say: “I always knew you were trying.”

Because I am. Every single day, I’m trying to look at him—not through him. To let him know he is not invisible. He is not in the shadows. He is light, too.

And if you’re reading this as a parent walking a similar road: I see you. I see your glass child, too. May we keep showing up for them in the quiet ways that count.