(Funmi's POV)
Funmi finally returned the call three days later.
She waited until Lizzy had left for class, until the apartment was quiet enough to hear her own breathing. She stood by the window, phone pressed to her ear, watching students cross the quad below laughing, careless, unburdened.
"Funmi," her mother said immediately, relief and accusation braided together. "Why have you been avoiding my calls?"
Funmi closed her eyes. "I haven't been avoiding you. I've been busy."
"With what?" her mother asked sharply. "School? Or Lizzy?"
There it was. The unspoken hierarchy, spoken aloud.
"Both," Funmi replied. "They're not separate."
A sigh crackled through the line. "You've always been the responsible one. That's why we rely on you. Lizzy needs guidance. She's… sensitive."
Sensitive. Fragile. The same words, repackaged.
Funmi felt something tighten in her chest. "Lizzy is doing well," she said carefully. "She's healing."
Her mother's tone cooled. "Healing from what, exactly? We gave her everything. A home. An education. A future."
Funmi's hand trembled. "You gave her shelter. That's not the same thing."
Silence.
Then, quieter but heavier: "Watch your tone."
That was when it happened.
Years of swallowed words pressed against Funmi's ribs, demanding air. She thought of the nights Lizzy cried herself to sleep. Of being asked no, expected to translate pain into politeness. Of being the one who kept the peace by breaking herself quietly.
"I've been watching my tone my entire life," Funmi said, her voice shaking now. "I've been managing emotions that weren't mine to manage. I've been carrying guilt that doesn't belong to me."
Her mother inhaled sharply. "You're forgetting yourself."
"No," Funmi whispered. "I'm finally remembering myself."
The line went dead.
Funmi lowered the phone slowly, her legs giving out beneath her. She slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around her knees, breath coming unevenly.
When Lizzy came home later that evening, she found Funmi like that eyes red, shoulders slumped, strength abandoned.
"Funmi?" Lizzy dropped her bag. "What happened?"
Funmi tried to speak. Nothing came out at first.
"I can't do it anymore," she said finally, voice cracked open. "I can't keep being the bridge. I'm tired, Lizzy. I'm so tired."
Lizzy sat beside her, instinctively reaching for her hand.
"They expect me to fix everything," Funmi continued. "To explain you. To soften things. To pretend nothing ever hurt us."
Tears slid down her face, unguarded and unashamed.
"And if I stop," she whispered, "I don't know who I am without that role."
Lizzy's throat tightened. She saw her sister clearly then not the strong one, not the shield but the girl who had been carrying too much for too long.
"You don't have to be everything," Lizzy said softly. "Not for them. Not for me."
Funmi shook her head. "I don't know how to let go."
"Then we learn together," Lizzy said. "I don't want my healing to cost you."
That broke something open.
Funmi leaned into her, sobbing quietly, years of restraint dissolving in the safety of her sister's arms. For the first time, she didn't apologize for it.
Later that night, long after the tears dried, Funmi lay awake staring at the ceiling.
Breaking didn't feel like failure.
It felt like honesty.
And honesty, she realized, was terrifying but it was also the first thing that had ever felt like freedom.