Immaculate sat quietly at the edge of the bed, half-listening to the chatter around her.
“I just took my sister’s wig this morning,” one girl laughed.
“She didn’t even notice?” another asked.
“She noticed o! But what can she do? It’s my right,” she shrugged playfully.
Laughter filled the room.
Immaculate forced a smile, but her fingers tightened around the edge of her dress. She didn’t say anything. She never did when conversations like this came up.
She couldn’t relate.

At home, life was different.
“Imma! Come and bring that ball!” her brother shouted from outside.
“I’m not your houseboy!” she snapped back, but she was already running toward them, barefoot, laughter trailing behind her.
Three boys. Endless noise. Rough play. Arguments that ended as quickly as they started.
And somewhere in the middle of it all… her.
The only other girl in the house was a distant presence, almost like a story people told.
“Tara will be coming back next month,” their mother would say.
Immaculate’s eyes would light up every time.
“Really? For how long?”
“Just holiday. She has to go back to school soon.”
It was never enough.
At night, under the dim light of a small lamp, Immaculate would sit with a pen and paper.
Dear Sister Tara,
I hope you are fine. I miss you so much…
She would pause, tapping the pen against her chin.
Today I played football with the boys again. I almost scored…
She smiled to herself, imagining Tara reading it, laughing, maybe even proud.
I can’t wait to see you. I have so many things to tell you.
She folded the letter carefully, as though it carried her entire heart inside it.
“Mommy, will you give it to her when you go for visiting day?”
Her mother nodded absentmindedly. “Yes, I will.”
Immaculate beamed.
But the replies never came.

Years passed, and waiting slowly turned into quiet acceptance.
Immaculate grew.
She became beautiful, intelligent, sharp, observant, strong in a way that didn’t need validation. Growing up with boys had taught her things other girls struggled with. She understood tone, intention, silence. She knew when someone meant what they said… and when they didn’t.
“You’re different,” one boy told her once, trying to impress her.
She raised an eyebrow. “Different how?”
“You’re not… easy.”
She smirked. “Good.”

The day Tara finally returned after her SS3 final exams, the house buzzed with excitement.
“She’s here!” one of the boys shouted.
Immaculate froze for a second, her heart suddenly racing.
Her sister.
She wiped her hands quickly on her dress and ran excitedly toward the living room.
Tara stood there, shorter than she remembered. Polished. Composed. Almost… receptive.
“Welcome,” their mother said warmly.
Immaculate stepped forward, her voice softer than usual.
“Welcome big sis.” Followed by a hug.
Tara glanced at her briefly.
“Thanks.”
The words weren’t harsh but they weren’t warm either.
Still, Immaculate smiled.
“It’s good to finally have you home.”
“Thanks.”
Tara responded coldly.
Something small cracked but Immaculate ignored it.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months and reality slowly replaced imagination.
“Immaculate!!!!” yelled Tara on a hot dry afternoon.
“How dare you pick my top?”
“Did you ask before touching my things?”
“I thought you wouldn't mind…I'm sorry” stammered Immaculate.
“I mind...” she shouted angrily.
Immaculate nodded slowly. “Okay.”
But later, when she borrowed something small, a scarf, barely noticeable, Tara’s reaction was indifferent.
“So now you’re a thief?” Tara snapped.
“I’m sorry, I was going to return...”
“You people have no training in this house,” she cut in sharply. “No respect.”
The words stung more than they should have.
It didn’t stop there.
At dinner, Tara would laugh lightly and say, “Some people think they’re too special.”
“Very disobedient” she added.
Their parents would glance at Immaculate, confused.
Immaculate would lower her gaze, her appetite gone.
Tara evn spoke behind her back, planting quiet seeds to the rest of the family. “Hmmm, a trait she picked from school” thought Imma.

One evening, after another round of subtle insults, she finally spoke.
“Did I do something to you?”
Tara looked at her, almost amused. “Everything about you is… annoying. You're so disrespectful, you think we're mates.”
Immaculate blinked. “What does that even mean? You're my only sister, we're supposed to be friends.”
“You act like you’re better than everyone. It’s irritating.”
Her throat tightened. “I’ve never said that.”
“You don’t have to say it,” Tara replied coldly. “It shows.”
That night, Immaculate sat on her bed, staring at nothing.
“How can my only sister treat me like this?”
“Why does she hate me?”
Tears slipped down quietly, hot and confusing.
She thought of the letters. The excitement. The dreams she had built around someone who now felt like a stranger.
Or worse, an enemy.
The next morning, she made a decision.
She walked past Tara’s box without looking at it. Past her voice. Past her presence.
“Immaculate,” Tara called once.
She paused briefly, then kept walking.
Something had shifted.
Not anger. Not revenge.
Just… distance.

Years passed.
Life moved on.
Immaculate built her own world, one where she didn’t need to shrink or explain herself. Till now, she got married. Had children.
Created the warmth she once longed for.
Sometimes, she would watch her daughters laugh together, sharing clothes, whispering secrets, fighting and forgiving within minutes.
And she would smile.
But there was always a quiet ache beneath it.
Not loud. Not bitter.
Just… there.
Because somewhere deep inside her lived a younger version of herself,
a girl with letters in her hands,
hope in her heart,
and a sister she never really had.