Frozen Heart

SHADOW OF SHARING

Chapter 4

Shadow Of Sharing

The months following Amara's arrival blurred into a rhythm of coos, cries, and constant care in the Greenstone household. By early 2024, the baby had grown from a fragile newborn into a chubby, giggling bundle of energy, her dark eyes mirroring Ifeoma's but with a spark all her own. Ngozi Greenstone, recovered from the birth, threw herself into motherhood with renewed vigor. She woke before dawn to nurse Amara, singing soft lullabies in Igbo that filled the house like incense. Diapers were changed with expert efficiency, baths given in a plastic tub on the veranda where the morning sun warmed the water just right. Purees of mashed papaya and yam were prepared fresh each day, spooned into Amara's eager mouth amid praises: "Good girl, eat up! You're growing so strong!"

David Greenstone, when not at work, took his turns too—rocking Amara during fussy evenings, burping her after feeds, or strolling her around the estate in a second-hand pram gifted by neighbors. The brothers helped in bursts: Chukwuma, now in university but home on weekends, read picture books to her; Emeka bounced her on his knee, making funny faces until she squealed.

Amara was adored beyond measure. Neighbors cooed over her during visits, calling her "little angel" or "Ngozi's mini-me." At church, parishioners passed her around like a holy relic, marveling at her dimples—smaller versions of Ifeoma's. Even the street kids peeked over the fence to see "Ifeoma's baby," bringing wildflowers or shiny pebbles as tributes. The house brimmed with her presence: a playmat in the living room covered in soft toys, a high chair at the dining table, bottles sterilizing on the kitchen counter. She was the new star, and the family orbited her willingly.

For Ifeoma, now nine and navigating primary four with its multiplication tables and composition essays, things changed in ways both subtle and sharp. The undivided attention she'd once commanded splintered. Snacks that used to be hers alone—bags of plantain chips from the market or bars of chocolate Daddy brought home—were now halved. "Share with your sister," Ngozi would say, even though Amara was too young for solids. Ifeoma would nod, breaking off pieces to "save" for later, but it felt like losing ground. Girls' stuff followed suit: the colorful hair beads, sparkly clips, and frilly dresses that once filled Ifeoma's drawer were duplicated in tinier sizes for Amara. "Matching outfits for my princesses," Ngozi beamed, sewing identical Ankara dresses. Ifeoma wore hers proudly at first, but soon noticed how Amara's always drew more compliments. "Oh, the baby looks so cute! Like a doll!" people gushed, while Ifeoma's went unremarked.

The divisions extended to time and space. Ifeoma's bedtime stories from Mummy became joint sessions, with Amara gurgling on the bed. Playtime in the yard meant watching Amara in her walker, chasing after her if she wandered too far. "You're the big sister now," David reminded her gently. "Help us take care of her." Ifeoma tried—pushing the pram, singing songs, even sharing her favorite doll. But resentment simmered beneath the surface, a quiet bubble waiting to burst.

It boiled over one sunny Saturday in June when Amara was nine months old. Ngozi had planned a special milestone: Amara's first official infant photo, a tradition in the family. She'd dressed the baby in a fluffy white gown with lace trim, her tiny feet in matching booties. A photographer from the estate—a friendly uncle with a Nikon camera—had been hired for the occasion. The living room was cleared, a soft blanket spread on the floor as a backdrop, dotted with toys to keep Amara smiling.

Ifeoma had been out playing on the street, her knees dusty from a game of hopscotch with Ada and Temi. She dashed home mid-morning, hearing the laughter inside. Peeking through the door, she saw the setup: Amara propped up on pillows, Ngozi adjusting her gown, the photographer snapping test shots. Excitement sparked in Ifeoma's chest. A photo! She loved pictures—remembering her own nursery graduation trophy pose.

Without thinking, she ran in, smoothing her rumpled school holiday dress. "Mummy, can I join? I'll hold Amara!" She squeezed onto the blanket, wrapping an arm around her sister, dimples flashing in a big smile.

The room froze. Ngozi's face tightened, her eyes flashing with uncharacteristic irritation. "Ifeoma, no! This is Amara's special photo—her first one alone. Get out of the frame!"

Ifeoma blinked, confused. "But... I want to be in it too. Like family pictures."

Ngozi stood abruptly, her voice rising sharp and harsh, slicing through the air like a whip. "I said no! You're always inserting yourself everywhere. This is for the baby—can't you see she's the star today? Go outside or to your room. Now!"

The words hit Ifeoma like a slap. Her mother had never spoken to her that way—never with such venom, such dismissal. Tears welled up instantly, her lip quivering. The photographer shifted uncomfortably, fiddling with his lens. Amara, sensing the tension, began to fuss.

Ifeoma stumbled back, fleeing to the veranda, where she curled up behind the water drum, sobbing quietly. Bitter thoughts swirled: Why was Mummy so mean? Did she hate her now? The mixed feelings crashed in—love for Amara tangled with hurt, resentment toward her mother blooming like a w**d. Maybe Mummy only loved her before because there was no baby. Maybe... she wasn't even real family.

The incident lingered like a bruise. In the days that followed, patterns emerged that deepened the wound. Amara received endless praise for the smallest feats. When she clapped her hands clumsily during a song, Ngozi cheered, "Brilliant girl! So smart already!" A wobbly crawl across the mat earned hugs and kisses: "Look at our little explorer!" Even burping after a feed drew coos of "Good job, my angel!"

Ifeoma, meanwhile, faced scoldings for minor slips. Spill a drop of juice? "Ifeoma, be careful! You're old enough to know better." Forget to tidy her toys? "Why are you so careless? Amara's things are everywhere because of you." A low score on a math quiz—despite her efforts—brought a sigh and a lecture: "You used to be the best. What's happening?" It felt unfair, lopsided. Ifeoma began to wonder darkly: Am I adopted? Was all the love before just pretend, waiting for the "real" daughter? The nursery awards on the wall mocked her now, relics of a forgotten time.

Through it all, David Greenstone remained her anchor. He never wavered, his love a steady flame. Evenings, when work allowed, he'd pull her onto his lap—just like old times—reading stories or answering her questions about the stars. "You're still my princess, Ifeoma," he'd whisper, hugging her tight. When Ngozi's scoldings stung, he'd intervene gently: "Ngozi, she's just a child." He brought her special treats on his way home— a solo ice cream cone, a new coloring book—reminding her she was seen, cherished. "Nothing changes that," he'd say, his voice warm as ever. It was Daddy who thawed the ice forming in her heart, at least for a while.

But jealousy took root between the sisters, subtle at first. Ifeoma watched Amara with narrowed eyes when no one looked—how she grabbed toys Ifeoma left out, how her cries summoned Mummy instantly. "She's just a baby," Ifeoma muttered to herself, but the envy grew. During play, she'd "accidentally" take back a rattle Amara reached for, earning a wail and another scolding. At night, lying awake, she'd poke Amara's crib bars, whispering, "Why do you get everything?" The bond they'd shared at birth frayed, replaced by rivalry.

The family moved forward, oblivious to the gathering frost. Amara thrived, adored. Ngozi beamed, exhausted but fulfilled. David balanced it all, his heart divided but whole.

But in Ifeoma, something hardened—a frozen seed, waiting for winter's chill.