“I don’t know why you have to be immature about it.” I put my foot in it again. Opened my big mouth.

“Don’t you dare call me immature, you don’t understand it’s hard for me.” My sister erupts into a flood of tears and walks out of the room. I sit contemplating.

Anyone else would have probably shrugged off the comment or started a slanging match. Even if they felt angry, crying would probably not have been their first reaction. “Alhamdulillah,” I murmur under my breath. Accidentally throwing away the salt of my sister, a depressive anorexic sufferer, and consequently making such a comment was not the best idea, especially as it involved food.