After my sister’s divorce, I thought letting her spend as much time as she wanted at my house was the kindest thing I could do. Then her jokes about my husband stopped feeling like jokes.
After my sister Eliza got divorced, she rented a little house about a ten-minute walk from mine.
She had been miserable for months, and after everything with her ex finally ended, I worried about her being alone.
She started coming over almost every day.
Most days, she looked like she’d been crying.
Usually around two in the afternoon, I’d hear the knock, open the door, and find her standing there in leggings, an oversized sweatshirt, and no makeup.
Most days, she looked like she’d been crying.
“Tea?” I’d ask.
“Please.”
We’d sit in my kitchen while she picked apart another piece of the divorce.
My husband, Andrew, didn’t mind her being there either.
She’d come for tea and often stay until Andrew got home from work.
Once, when she apologized for practically living in my kitchen, I laughed and said, “You’re my sister. My house is your house.”
I meant she was welcome.
My husband, Andrew, didn’t mind her being there either.
He’d come home, see her shoes by the door, and say, “Should I order enough food for three?”
