I have a younger sister. Completely normal, isn’t it? Everyone (or at least most of us) have a little devil that disrupts our life equation, steals our ice cream, and maintains a firm grip on our new clothes. But my case is rather unique. My graced this earth nine and half years after me. So you can understand what we are like. At the age when I was waiting for the legendary teenage epiphany of the world, my sister was busy making sure she doesn’t divide by a math problem that requires multiplication. Then there was a special situation between us: she was so young that she is like a child I raised myself. Yes, my mom is a working lady and my dad lives in another state, away from home. So it’s two people parenting one another. She’s someone who makes me happier, more open and caring. I, in turn, painted her as me, someone with a very high sense of justice and a fascinating stubbornness. And I could never ask for any better heir for my innate quality, even now all those traits of mine can be seen making an appearance in her now and then.