By homeroom, I had worn myself out. All I wanted to do was go home and relax in a house I’d never been in before with a sister I’d never met. My homeroom teacher—the same one I had “woken” up to—had other ideas.

“Mi-chan, a word,” she said after dismissing everyone else.

I caught Sakura’s eye and gave her a shrug. She softly laughed behind her hand. Going up to the desk, I looked suitably apologetic for whatever I’d done this time. The teacher, Riku Toyama, shuffled together her papers while everyone else filed out of the room.

When it was just the two of us, she sighed. “Mi-chan,” she said, softer than before. “I understand my classes aren’t particularly challenging for you, and I am understanding of your home situation at this time, but I don’t play favourites. If this pattern of incidents continues, I will begin disciplinary action against you. Am I clear?”

Even without any edge to her words, the threat in them was clear. “Yes, sensei.”

She didn’t react, keeping her gaze on the papers in her hand, then she reached up and took off her glasses, neatly folding them and slotting them into a case. “If you need it, you can always take a period off in the infirmary. On the condition your studies don’t fall behind, that is,” she said, finally looking up to me.

They were soft eyes. “Yes, sensei. Thank you.”

She chuckled at that, bringing her hand to her chin. “I’m concerned that you’ve learned your manners. It was hard enough to be angry at you before,” she said, her tone light.

“Sorry, sensei, I’ll try to be ruder just for you.”

“There’s the cheekiness I know,” she said as she stood up

All in all, she had a similar look to Sakura—or, in other words, she was an average Japanese woman. On the shorter side, I would have been taller than her if not for the raised heel of her shoes. While Sakura had long hair, Toyama-sensei had short hair that didn’t quite reach her shoulders. The somewhat youthful look of hers was balanced by the suit she wore, well-fitting and mature.

She softly cleared her throat and brushed loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Well, that’s all. Don’t keep Fujiyama-san waiting.”

“Yes, sensei,” I said, giving her a shallow bow from the waist.

Outside the room (just as she’d said) I almost ran into Sakura, not expecting her to be right beside the door. “Sorry,” I said, both for the near miss and for the wait.

“It’s fine,” she said. “Um, let’s go, then.”

We walked slowly through the school, talking about the same sorts of nothing things we had chatted about over lunch. Our shoe lockers were neighbours—just like us. I remembered it while we walked home. Sakura had been my neighbour and best friend since we were children, maybe even babies. We’d always been in the same school and in the same class too. While both of us got on well enough with the other girls in our classes, we’d never made other close friends—until Natalie transferred in.

Even though I’d never seen the roads before, I knew the walk home by instinct. It was just long enough for a good talk. My house came first and the two of us hung around the gate to finish a meaningless promise to listen to a band by tomorrow. Only, before we could say our goodbyes, the door to my house opened and a young girl shot out.

“Mi-onee-chan!” she shouted.

I caught her in a hug, bending down to match her height before lifting her up into the air. Though eleven years old, she was still rather small and light and easy to pick up. “Hime-chan!”

Behind me, I heard Sakura giggle. “You really do spoil Himawari-chan.”

In a moment of clarity, I understood that I’d called her “princess”. It was like with miss and sensei before, languages blending together in my head in a way that was somehow natural. A nickname I had for her. But Sakura was right, I did spoil her: my precious little sister.

For her part, Himawari leant over to give Sakura a sour look and ask, “Can we help you with something?” The formal tone made me laugh and Sakura laughed as well, which led to a rather childish pout for a soon-to-be middle schooler. Himawari getting heavy, I eased her down.

“I’ll see you at school tomorrow, Mi-chan,” Sakura said, smiling. Bending down a touch, she added, “Be good for your big sister, Himawari-chan.”

“Have a good afternoon,” I said, giving her a little wave.

Himawari ignoring Sakura, I nudged her and she reluctantly said, “Bye,” without quite looking at Sakura.

Though we went through all of that, I still watched Sakura walk to the next gate along the road and go down the little path to her front door. Himawari dragged me inside at that point. I chided her for coming outside in her house slippers while putting on my own and she looked suitably guilty—a routine we went through nearly every day.

As always, we ended up in the kitchen, asking each other how our day had gone. She had her homework out already and a cup of milk—to grow big and strong. While she sat in front of it, I emptied out my lunch box and prepared to wash it.

“Onee-chan, you didn’t eat all your lunch?” she asked.

I wasn’t facing her, but I could clearly see her wrinkled nose. “Sorry. I’m not feeling well today, but it was tasty.”

That wasn’t a good answer, it seemed, her pen clattering to the table and chair scraping. Luckily, I anticipated her before she barged into me with an aggressive hug and stayed upright, then I dutifully bowed my head so she could feel it for a temperature. “Is it a cold? Or a bug? Or is it, um, that time of the month?” she asked, speaking fast except for that moment of hesitation.

“Just the weather, or maybe I need a bit more sleep. Nothing to worry about,” I said.

She didn’t look happy with my answer, but she didn’t challenge it, going back to her work. “You have to eat all your dinner, okay? I’ll cook your favourite meal.”

I wasn’t sure where she was going to get a premium steak from at such short notice, but smiled and thanked her anyway. We carried on with our routine from there, the two of us doing homework on the kitchen table, a snack and a drink and a chat now and then. Our slow and steady work switched to preparing dinner after a while. I was very much out of my element in a kitchen that lacked an oven and making food I’d never heard of before, despite it being my favourite. She had it all under control, though, making me chop up this and peel that as she tended to the stovetop. What reservations I had with having a child cook were just cultural; she did a good job staying safe, even when it came to shallow frying.

By the time it was served, I had to re-evaluate if a good steak was still my favourite food. It hadn’t been a coincidence that I’d liked Sakura’s fried chicken so much. But Himawari had also fried potato slices and added a dollop of a home-made tomato relish. I didn’t think I’d ever had that meal before, yet it felt so nostalgic—like a childhood favourite.

“If you don’t feel like eating karaage and sauté potatoes, I’m gonna call Kiko-sensei,” she said, eyes narrowed and expression stern.

Seeing such a serious look on such a cute girl, I had to laugh. “Don’t worry, I think I’ll manage,” I said. Then what she’d said sunk in: karaage, fried chicken. It was like an optical illusion, the words flickering back and forth in my head before my concentration broke and karaage remained. But there was still fried chicken—it was just something else. This meal was karaage, and fried chicken was an American thing.

She’d been too busy eating to notice my moment in thought and I quickly joined her before she did notice. After the first bite, I couldn’t help but say, “Wow, it’s even tastier than Sakura’s.”

Himawari frowned, looking up at me. “When did Sakura cook for you?”

It would have been a lot more worrying of a question if she could muster up an ounce of menacing. “She had some for lunch today and let me try it.”

My words settled in, eventually bringing out a smug look from her. “But mine’s still the best.”

“Well, Sakura’s was cold. It probably would have tasted better fresh,” I said, trying not to smile.

Her nose crinkled up in such a childish reaction. I never could stop myself from teasing, really, and she made it rather easy. “I was going to do a stew, so it’s not like I had everything to make it properly,” she said, getting so quiet by the end I could barely hear.

“Maybe we should have a cooking competition. You both cook karaage for me every day, and I’ll decide whose is the best after a year.”

For a long few seconds, she kept a kind of pout and puzzled expression and then huffed. “You’ll get fat if you eat karaage every day.”

“But I’ll be happy and you can’t put a price on happiness, can you?” I said.

She rolled her eyes and didn’t even dignify me with a response, returning to eating. I followed suit, letting up on my teasing for the rest of the meal, then did most of the washing up for my penance (she wouldn’t quite let me do all of it by myself).

Eating all of that food did make me feel sick, but it was a fair price for making her happy. Also, with how oily it was, I did have a craving for beer that I really shouldn’t have had as a sixteen-year-old….

It wasn’t that late, but the days did start early and Himawari was young, a yawn escaping her. “Ready for bed already?” I asked.

Though she gave a little huff, she didn’t argue. However, she did ask, “Can we have a bath together tonight?”

So used to just going with the flow, I said, “Sure.”

My memories caught up quickly and she voiced them. “Yay! It’s been so long since we last did.”

It was a strange request for me, the culture differences once again getting to me, but it wasn’t that weird. There was even a public bath down the road that I used to go to with Sakura and her mum a long time ago, when I was just a little younger than Himawari. And I’d helped Himawari bathe until a couple of years ago, washing her back and her hair. Then I stopped. I couldn’t remember why, my memories of the last couple years hazy.

Regardless of what I felt or thought, Himawari dragged me around the house to get pyjamas and towels and then to the bathroom, like she wasn’t willing to give me a chance to change my mind. There, we stripped down and started up the shower. Unlike western bathrooms, this was more of a wet room, the entire floor tiled with a drain. The shower was outside of the bath with a pair of low stools to sit on while using it. When the stream of water warmed, I started washing her, wetting her hair and making sure she didn’t get too cold. I fell into the old routine easily, my mind wandering.

We weren’t actually related by blood. I only now remembered that, brushing my hand through her dark black hair. My mother died when I was young, and my father later remarried a widow in the same position. That reminded me that we lived alone, abandoned in the truest sense. Even when my father and stepmother lived with us, we’d been abandoned, really.

My sense of perspective an adult’s, I empathised with my father. He’d lost the woman he whole-heartedly loved and, in me, he could only see a painful reminder. I couldn’t imagine the anguish it caused. My insight into Himawari’s mother wasn’t as good, but I thought she probably had wanted to be a wife and not a mother. She certainly hadn’t wanted to be a stepmother, but it was probably difficult for her to find someone willing to support her and her daughter.

Of course, those adult sensibilities of mine also meant I couldn’t forgive them. We were children. Even if they could never love us, their responsibility as parents—as adults—was to pretend. Instead, they emotionally neglected us.

Finally, the adult I was in spirit, I let what anger rose in me simply pass. While anger had its uses, it was a sword with a thorned handle. This one in particular would only hurt me—and Himawari—so I put it away, listening to her excited ramblings as best I could.

After rinsing ourselves under the shower, we climbed into the tub. It was harder to fit us both in than it used to be; I’d grown a lot since then and she wasn’t any smaller either. Still, we managed to get something close to comfortable.

Once her rambling stopped, I fell into thought and a particularly unpleasant thought crawled up my spine, whispering into my ear: Did that person ask for this? Did someone stand in front of that goddess and ask for a cute stepsister who likes to take baths together? Because the sort of person who wished for that, who wished to be a Japanese schoolgirl….

Himawari sitting in front with her back to me, she couldn’t see my expression, and I was very thankful for that. I did my best to push the thoughts out of mind, settling myself with the simple fact that it was me here and not someone else.

Soothing as the warm bath was, we didn’t linger long. Himawari’s head started drooping, her sentences trailing off into silence. The cool air woke her up enough to let us dry each other’s hair. I made sure to brush her hair thoroughly—I knew how nice it was to have someone else do that for me. Then she got herself ready for bed. The summer light still shone outside, but the curtains drowned that to a warm strip at the edges of the window, a gentle darkness blanketing her bedroom.

I sat on the edge of her bed, loosely stroking her hair while she said her last mumblings of the day. In my old life, I’d never had children and had never wanted any either, but not wanting to have a child and rejecting a child I already had was a simple, yet important, distinction to me. It didn’t matter what the rest of our messed up family had done.

“Goodnight,” I whispered, and leant down to kiss her forehead.

What words she tried to say, I couldn’t tell, but her smile was unmissable as she gave my hand one last squeeze.