In preparation for my sister's return, I try to recall all the times she's upset me.

I don't know when exactly she changed her number. She stopped being reachable by phone as soon as she left for college, so if I were to guess, it'd be then.

Despite this, I still have a record of the voicemails I left her on the old landline. It's been years since I last used the old phone, but it still lights up when I plug it in. There are cobwebs all over the keypad that I lazily swat away. I use the dial to navigate through my inbox, pushing past all the spam calls and advertisements.

The first message is from mid-November, nearly a decade ago.

"Hey Bridgette, it's me. How's it in the big city? I hope it's everything you dreamed of," my voice is muffled by static, "anyway, I'll try and keep this short, but it's going to be Thanksgiving soon, so let me know when you're coming home. Or if you're busy and want to stay at the dorm instead. I totally understand that too. Either way, it'd be great if you could call me back when you're free. Love you always."

Beep.

"Hey. It's me again. I've been trying to reach you for a while. Sorry for bothering you. Wanted to know if you're coming home for Christmas. We can make gingerbread houses together again. If that's what you want. I hope you don't think you're too cool for your little sister now. Well, maybe you are, but that doesn't mean I don't wanna see you. Door's always open for you, you know that right? Talk to you soon."

Beep.

"Bridgette...why won't you talk to me? Did you forget about us?" My voice was so slurred after three fermented mimosas. "I don't know what I did, but I'm sorry. Please come home. I won't ever do it again."

Beep.

"Hey...it's been a while. Trust me, I've taken the hint. By some weird chance you've been listening to these messages, I just wanted to let you know mom's sick. And it looks serious. I know you're over there, like, building your life or whatever, but it'd be nice for you to support her through a tough time. It's your choice at the end of the day. Okay, hanging up now."

Beep.

"December 28th. You can come if you want."

At the very least, I know she listened to the last message.

Mom was always a superstitious person, and she raised us to be as well. No washing or cutting your hair on New Year's. That's as good as flushing the fortune away. Eight is the luckiest number because it's homophones with prosperity in Chinese (but avoid four, it's homophones with death). Don't stick your chopsticks upright in your rice; it looks too much like incense by a grave. I'm not a spiritual person, but I accept these irrational traditions like they're universal truths. So when I saw the funeral flowers outside my doorstep instead of at the cemetery, all I could see was red. Because according to Mom, that was as good as her cursing me.

"You ungrateful bitch," I quietly said to myself, shredding the ribbon with my hands. She didn't even get the right type of flowers. She was supposed to get white or yellow chrysanthemums or lilies, not red roses. This wasn't a fucking wedding.

Too angry to entertain the memory any longer, I shuffle through the rest of the box's contents: an old lapis necklace, two stray Mahjong tiles, and a broken digital watch. One artifact sticks out, though. It's an old painting Bridgette made when we were still young.

Mom used to sign us up for the same extracurricular activities as a form of babysitting—dancing, Kumon tutoring, volleyball—you name it, we did it. Regardless of what hobby we were forced into, it felt like Mom was priming me for failure and her for success.

In particular, we both had painting classes every Tuesday, the only extracurricular I genuinely enjoyed. The first time I picked up a brush, I knew this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. My enjoyment was spoiled, however, when everyone swore Bridgette was the second coming of Picasso. No one ever said that about me. Anything I could do, she could do better. Why couldn't she let me have this one thing?

Obviously, Mom wasn't stupid enough to make us paint the same motifs. That would've just led to more bickering between us. But since Bridgette was older, she always had the first choice in the pile of references, meanwhile, I was stuck with the leftovers.

One time, she picked the small clay bunny I wanted. She knew bunnies were my favorite animal. She did it on purpose.

When no one was looking, in a fit of rage, I drew a smiley face in the corner of her cliffside painting. In black, of course, so she couldn't mend it so easily.

"Jiuli messed up my painting!" Bridgette announced when she returned to the bathroom, staring at her ruined artwork in horror.

"She's lying," I retorted, watching as mom consoled her with a hug. Of course, I was the one lying, but I was too proud to admit to it. There were lots of people in class, plenty of people to blame. It was all he said she said at the end of the day.

"Can you just apologize, Jiuli?" mom sighed.

"Are you kidding me?" I hissed, green with jealousy, green with envy that my own mother of all people was taking her side. She didn't believe me. Why would she? I was only Bridgette's fat and gay imposter. "I'm not going to apologize for something I didn't do."

"We all know it was you!" Bridgette hiccuped.

"It wasn't," I insisted. "She probably just made a mistake and wants an excuse to get a new canvas."

"What—what is wrong with you? I'd never—"

"She's insane. She just wants me to get in trouble."

"I'm not insane, you're lying!"

"Seriously Jiuli," mom interjected with so much bite, that I knew to tread lightly. "Do you think I'm dumb? Bridgette would never mess up like that."

There it was! In her eyes, Bridgette was too perfect to ever make a mistake. It would always be my fault. She's always been good at victimizing herself, and I was tired of people falling for it.

"Fine. If you want to blame me, then I can't stop you. But I didn't do it."

I got my TV privileges revoked for a month. The worst part was Bridgette turned the smiley face into the shadow of a tree she added. Mom nearly fainted when she saw the finished product. Supposedly, it was way better than the original. She tacked the painting onto our fridge with a magnet, salt in the wound. It taunted me every time I passed by it.

The door knocker makes a horrible thudding noise. Without thinking, I let the person who's waiting in, knowing there's only one person it could be.

Bridgette's frantically assembling the copse of luggage she brought into a neat line, her long black hair hanging like a curtain covering her face.

When she finally realizes I've been standing in front of her, waiting, she straightens up and smiles in the way she always did—like she knows your deepest, most twisted secret.

"Hey."

"Hey," I reply reflexively—quite an anti-climatic first greeting after years of Cold War animosity. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe a fight? Maybe a hug?

I suppose I was hoping for some acknowledgment of the elephant in the room. Here we are, completely unrecognizable from the last time we saw each other. Since she's been gone, I've fallen in love, fallen out of love, learned how to play the clarinet, and became an organ donor. I switched from gold to silver jewelry. I stopped cutting my forearms and started cutting my thighs since legs are less visible. I got three more piercings and dyed my hair brown. There's a sick satisfaction in knowing I'm no longer the girl she once knew, and I so badly want her to be sad about it. The confrontation never comes, and I force myself to ignore it while she wheels her things inside individually.

"Where should I put all this?"

"I don't know."

She looks around the house like this is her first time here. Like she didn't grow up in this very house for 18 years. A stranger might not even think we're related just from looking at the way we stood so far apart, trying to keep as much distance between us as possible. Doesn't help that on a brief cursory glance, we don't look alike, Bridgette and I (well, except for this one time where a man told me I looked like "Bridgette if she got burnt in the oven" when he found out we were related).

When we were seen together as kids, people would ask, "Are you guys really sisters?" Somehow, that conversation veers into very intimate territory, the person then asking which parent is the Chinese one, if one of us is adopted, if we were step-siblings or half-siblings (though the latter is correct). Annoyed, I'd have to explain that we have the same Chinese mom, but different dads; hers died of a heart attack three weeks after she was born and mine left us when I was 10. What did the technical classifications matter for? We grew up together, in the same house. Sang the same lullabies. Shared the same corduroy overalls. How can someone be half of a sister, anyway? As far as I'm concerned, she's my sister, fully. End of story.

To avoid confusion and further prying from strangers, Bridgette started saying we were actually just friends. I knew why she did it, to protect our peace from a community that already isolated me, but just once, I wished she would put her foot down and say, yes this is my sister, and what about it? Just once, I hopelessly wished she looked more proud to be related to me. Was that too much to ask for?

"I'll just go to my bed, then."

"I, um, converted your room into an art studio a while back."

"Oh, okay," she says, sounding mildly offended. Not sure why, though. Not like she's entitled to that space anymore. "I'll just sleep on the futon, I guess."

I neither agree nor disagree. Just watch her skinny arms lug her laptop out of its puffed sleeve. Now that there's barely any electricity, it's basically useless. It'd make a good placemat for our mugs, though.

Are we really going to pretend like nothing's changed? Like we can just pick up where we left off? Guess that's the way she operates now.

"That's...all you have to say to me?" I mumble.

She stiffens. "I mean...yeah it is. I missed you? Is that what you want to hear?"

So typical. This may be something I must accept for us to move on. That she's always been the better one between us. Destined for a better job, better university, better family. Me on the other hand? I have no dreams, no motivation, and no money. But somehow, we wound up at the same place in the end. So, tell me, who really won?

"Forget I said anything," I sigh, trying not to sound bitter. The wound won't heal if you keep picking at it. What did it matter, anyway? The world is going to end any moment now.

She looks like she wants to bite back, but chooses not to. "I'm excited to be back, even if these aren't ideal circumstances. We should stop thinking about what we've lost and focus on what we can gain. Think about it like this—we can have a new life together. We're finally truly free. No job to report to. No laws telling me I can't light up fireworks for the hell of it. I can finally be myself."

Despite myself, my face softens. Because she's right, all I've ever wanted was to be able to live.