She thought about what she’d asked for another few seconds.
Then she picked up the little white gift bag Lina had sent over for her and said, “Okay.”
“And you’re still her sister?”
Something about that “okay” stayed with me after my mother arrived.
Mom looked me up and down. “You’re really staying home?”
“I already told you I was.”
Mom sighed loudly.
“Annie, this bitterness has gone on long enough. Lina is your sister.”
I looked at her.
“Annie, this bitterness has gone on long enough. Lina is your sister.”
That was the part nobody in my family seemed interested in remembering.
Mom then said, “She deserves happiness too.”
Amelia stood beside the door, watching us.
I didn’t want another fight in front of her.
So I only said, “Have a good time, baby.”
Amelia hugged me.
“I love you, Mom.”
That was the part nobody in my family seemed interested in remembering.
“I love you too.”
Then Mom muttered, “You could try acting like a sister for one day.”
I shut the door after them before I said something I would regret.
My other three children argued over cartoons while I curled beneath a blanket and tried not to picture the ceremony three towns away.
“You could try acting like a sister for one day.”
Ryan standing at the altar.
Lina in white.
My parents smiling.
Everyone pretending there had not been another wife first.
Another sister.
Another baby.
I closed my eyes.
Everyone pretending there had not been another wife first.
And immediately heard Ryan’s voice from the day my marriage ended.
“Honey, I love you so much. I’ll see you soon at our usual hotel.”
I had come home early carrying grocery bags.
He hadn’t heard me.
“Honey, I love you so much. I’ll see you soon at our usual hotel.”
“I’ll make something up for her,” Ryan had said into the phone, laughing. “She believes everything I say like a complete idiot.”
The bag in my hand had slipped against my wrist.
One jar of pasta sauce hit the floor.
Ryan turned.
For half a second, neither of us spoke.
“She believes everything I say like a complete idiot.”
Then he looked down at the broken jar.
Not at me.
Not at my pregnant stomach.
At the sauce spreading across the tile.
“Who’s on the phone?” I asked.
He exhaled. “Annie…”
“Who?”
He didn’t even try to lie.
“Lina.”
My brain simply refused to understand the confession.
“My sister?”
