Of all the people I could have anticipated caring for in my life–children, my parents, sick friends–I never imagined I’d have to tend to the needs of an older sibling who had always been successful, healthy and self-sufficient. As the youngest child and only girl in a family of four much older men, I was constantly told that I was overemotional, hypersensitive and selfish. Nothing I did growing up seemed to garner any attention or admiration from my brothers–not my academic achievements, my athletic abilities or my sparkling personality. I was simply their little sister, prone to tantrums and crying jags, girlish outbursts that were best ignored.

Now, here I was, sitting on the floor in front of a cardboard box that contained something that normally would have triggered weeping fits–the discarded identity of my 50-year-old sibling. I sliced it open and exposed the contents: wrinkled khakis, a Brooks Brothers shirt, white socks and a pair of tennis shoes without the laces–no doubt removed because they were a potential suicide aid. His things were sent without care, without the hope of use in the coming years. They were sent for me to launder, fold and store until he is able to attempt to return to his former life, a life that will never be the same as it was on the day he last wore street clothes. He had looked so common and preppy in these clothes when I’d said goodbye, just before the court officers cuffed him and led him away to begin serving a sentence of one to three years in state prison for a nonviolent sex crime.

In the many months leading up to his trial and incarceration, I could no longer be the sensitive little sister; I had to become the family rock, the person who could help navigate my brother’s crisis. Distant and distracted by busy lives, my other brothers could not provide the support and attention the situation demanded. So at 38, I shed my girlhood persona and stepped into my new role without any hesitation. Almost.

It was the box that gave me pause. I let it sit for a few days, trying not to notice the sad, dank scent the clothes inside were emitting. Eventually I threw out the laceless sneakers and shoved the rest of the items into my laundry basket. I knew the Brooks Brothers shirt probably deserved better treatment than a machine wash, but my brother would have greater concerns when he was finally able to wear that shirt again: where to live, how to find work as an ex-con and how to deal with the feelings he would emerge with after being branded for life as a felon.

For now, his needs were more immediate. I started visiting a special Web site where I could purchase items for him. Although I could send flip-flops and individually wrapped pickles, the Web site didn’t offer special shampoo for his dandruff, triple-crème Brie for his highly discerning palate or ointments for his chronic eczema. He’d just have to tolerate the flakes raining down from his dry scalp, learn to like processed cheese and try to ignore his itchy skin.

Before my first visit upstate, he called to request books and sweets, and not just any, as the rules were strict. Every Friday for five months I scanned the grocery-store shelves for safety-sealed cakes and cookies, treats I never would have considered purchasing in our normal lives.

But normal life had been temporarily suspended, or perhaps forever changed for both of us.

When my brother told me he’d been arrested, the shift in power and resources was sudden and vast. I instantly became something I had always strived to be: respected, needed and strong. Now it doesn’t matter anymore which of us is older. All that matters is that I can be there for him, with boxes full of treats and my unconditional love.