A Killer In Uniform

Chapter Five – Family Pressure

School today was the usual. Boring classes I barely paid attention to, pity stares, whispering, gossiping with my girls and spending some time at the library.

No matter how hard I tried to concentrate, I couldn’t get my mind off that note and the hidden mysteries surrounding Helena’s death.

I was mentally, physically and emotionally exhausted. I needed some rest, a long nap and probably a hug.

When I got home that evening, Mum was sitting in the living room with a wrapper tied loosely around her chest. The television was on, but she wasn’t watching, her eyes were fixed on nothing, lost somewhere between grief and exhaustion.

“Welcome Elsa,” she murmured.

“Good evening Mama,” I said, dropping my bag beside the chair.

She tried to smile, “There’s soup in the kitchen. Eat before you start reading. Don’t starve yourself like yesterday.”

I nodded. “Yes ma.”

Helena would have rushed in first, already complaining about being hungry, already asking if there was meat inside the soup. The thought made my chest tighten.

"Elsie, come and carry your stubborn head, let’s eat together!" She would have said.

Before I could escape upstairs, my dad walked in. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, briefcase in one hand, his phone in the other. His voice was impatient. “Yes, yes, I’ll send the files tonight.” He ended the call, dropped the case, and turned toward me.

He looked as if he had walked straight out of the office and into our grief without stopping to breathe.

“You’re back,” he said, his eyes flicking over me. “How was school?”

“It was… fine” I muttered.

He gave a short nod, then sighed. “Elsa, listen. WAEC is around the corner. You must not allow this situation to derail you. Your mother and I are counting on you.”

Something in me cracked. This situation? As if Helena’s death was a small inconvenience, a delay in his plans for my future. He said it like it was a stain on a shirt, something we could scrub off if we just worked hard enough.

"Papa,” I whispered, my throat burning. “Helena just died. She was my twin. Do you even—”

“I know,” he said firmly, adjusting his tie as though to keep control. “But crying won’t change it. You must be strong. Strong for your mother, and for yourself. She wouldn’t want you to waste time.”

The words stabbed deep. Maybe he was right. But the way he said it; so sharp, so final, made me feel like I wasn’t allowed to grieve. Like my tears were a weakness.

My vision blurred. I looked at Mama, hoping she would defend me, tell him it was okay to grieve. But she only turned away, shoulders shaking silently. Papa didn’t notice, or maybe he pretended not to.

The silence in the room was unbearable.

“Excuse me,” I muttered, running upstairs before my tears spilled.

On Helena’s bed, Mama had laid out some of her clothes neatly folded, as if waiting for her to come back and wear them. My fingers brushed against one of her blouses. I pressed it to my face, breathing in the faint scent of her body spray.

I missed her.

I missed my sister.

My dad wanted me to focus on exams. My mum wanted me to stay strong. But all I wanted was Helena.

And no matter how much they tried to bury me under “family expectations,” the hole she left behind was one I couldn’t cover with WAEC past questions.