“Sure.”
“I’m sorry I called it a joke. All those times. The bike and the dress and Kevin and…” She stopped.
“And the backyard. It was never a joke. You were right. I just said it so I wouldn’t have to feel bad.”
“I know,” I said.
“I’m trying not to do that anymore.”
“I know,” I said again. “I can tell.”
We’re not fixed. We may never be all the way fixed. But we’re something. We’re two sisters who
 100vw, 576px” data-lazy-src=”https://i0.wp.com/middleagedclub.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/09/image-5928.png?resize=576%2C576&ssl=1″ /></figure>
<p>finally stopped pretending things were funny when they weren’t.</p>
<p>And Tom.</p>
<p>Tom and I are friends. Real friends. The kind you call when your car won’t start or your kid is sick</p>
<p>or you just need to hear a voice that understands.</p>
<p>He came to Ben’s sixth birthday party in June. He brought a present: a birdhouse. He built it himself, in my father’s garage, on a Saturday afternoon. My father helped. The two of them spent</p> <div class=)
