Her tone was so full of joy that I thought maybe she had won a lottery or something.
I walked toward her, still yawning. "What happened, Mom?"
Her face was glowing, almost as if she had just received the best news in the world.
"Your sister is coming home! Her exams are over, so she's coming today!"
The words hit me like a lightning bolt. For a second, I froze mid-step and nearly missed a stair.
"Oh no…" I muttered under my breath. "She's coming? Today?"
My peaceful holiday flashed before my eyes — gone, completely destroyed.
Just hearing her name brings back memories of chaos — arguments over the TV remote, her loud music, her habit of using my things without asking.
My mind screamed, God, why today of all days?
I walked into the kitchen, rubbing my forehead. "Mom, are you sure she's coming today? Maybe she'll change her mind?"
Mom turned, still smiling like she'd seen an angel. "Of course she's coming! I already talked to her this morning. She'll reach by noon."
I sighed deeply. "Great… there goes my peace."
Dad, without even looking up from his newspaper, added, "She's your sister, not a storm."
I muttered quietly, "Same effect though."
Mom glared at me. "James!"
I quickly straightened my posture. "I mean—it'll be nice to have her home again."
---
My sister, Beatrice, is eighteen years old. She went to university for a graduate program in arts — something fancy involving calligraphy and painting.
Though she's my younger sister, she behaves like she's the boss of the entire house.
The irony is, no one dares to refuse her.
I still remember one particular day, just before she left for college.
We were walking together through an art street fair.
She stopped in front of this weird painting — just random splashes of color, something that looked like the artist had tripped while holding a paintbrush.
Her eyes sparkled like she had discovered the lost treasure of Atlantis.
"Big brother, I want that one!" she said, pointing at it.
I stared at the painting, then at her. "You sure you're looking at the right thing? This looks like someone spilled their lunch on a canvas."
But Beatrice wouldn't give up. She began pleading in that soft, dramatic voice. "Please, please, big brother, just this one. I really love it."
I tried to stay strong. "No way. That thing costs too much for something I could draw with my eyes closed."
Then came the face.
That deadly, innocent, teary-eyed, guilt-inducing expression that could melt even the strictest parent.
She looked at me as if my refusal would end her entire world.
And like a fool, I gave in. I bought that ridiculous painting for a hefty price.
She was jumping with joy, "Bog brother is the best".
Till this day, I still regret it. "What a waste of money," I grumbled every time I saw it hanging in her room.
But what can anyone do? Beatrice is the apple of Mom and Dad's eyes.
She can do no wrong. If I forget to switch off a light, I get a lecture about wasting electricity.
But if Beatrice leaves the geyser running all morning, Mom says, "Oh, she must've been tired."
I tell you, there's no justice in this house.
Mom was still in a cheerful mood when she turned to me and said,
"Go and pick her up from the station at noon. Take your dad's car with you—and remember to drive safely! No haste driving, understand?"
I nodded half-heartedly. "Yeah, yeah, I know."
She wasn't finished. "And don't forget to take your driving license.
These days, car checking is going on almost daily. You'll get into trouble for no reason if you don't have it."
I raised my hands in mock surrender. "Alright, Mom, relax. I'll take the license, the car, and even my good manners along. Happy now?"
Mom gave me that don't-test-me look. "Very funny, Mr. Comedian. Just be careful."
Dad looked up from his newspaper for a moment and said calmly, "Take care of the car more than your jokes."
I sighed. "So much faith in me."
As I walked toward my room to get ready, I couldn't help but feel a mix of annoyance and resignation.
The holiday I'd been waiting for had turned into a chauffeur duty day.
At noon, instead of sleeping late or watching a movie, I'd be at the station picking up the human tornado herself — Beatrice.
Still, no matter how much I complain or pretend to be annoyed, deep down I know one thing — I love her.
Whatever I say, she's still my little sister. She's kind-hearted, pure at heart, and full of innocence… maybe with a bit of immaturity mixed in. But that's what makes her who she is.
Even when she drives me crazy, I can't stay mad at her for long.
It's strange how someone can make your life chaotic and yet feel like the most precious part of it.
By the time the clock struck eleven-thirty, Mom was already hovering around like an air-traffic controller.
"Did you check the fuel?"
"Yes, Mom."
"License?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Wallet?"
"Yes, Mom."
"Don't forget to call when you reach the station."
I sighed. "Mom, I'm going to the station, not another planet."
Dad chuckled from behind his newspaper. "That's how your mom shows her love."
I grabbed the car keys and stepped outside.
The sunlight was bright, the street calm — that quietness only a public holiday brings.
I unlocked the car, sat behind the wheel, and took a deep breath before starting the engine.
The drive to the station was around half an hour, but traffic lights seemed to be in a mood to test my patience.
Every single one turned red as I approached.
While waiting at one of them, I caught myself smiling.
I could already imagine Beatrice's face — the way she'd rush out, waving her hands like she was the only one who existed in the world.
And no matter how much I tried to act annoyed, the thought warmed me inside.
When I reached the station, the platform was already buzzing with life — vendors shouting, people running with luggage, children crying, and trains whistling in the background.
I scanned the crowd, waiting for Beatrice's familiar face.
Then I saw her.
She was standing near the exit, looking around anxiously, clutching her bag tightly.
The moment her eyes met mine, she ran toward me — but this time, something was different.