“He’s my husband. I’m allowed to be possessive about the position.”
“You’re being possessive.”
“He’s my husband. I’m allowed to be possessive about the position.”
“You’re acting insecure.”
“I’m acting irritated.”
She left angry.
She was my sister, she was hurting, and I told myself grief made people strange.
The next afternoon, she came back as if nothing had happened.
I kept allowing it. I mean, she was my sister, she was hurting, and I told myself grief made people strange.
One night, I asked Andrew, “Why don’t you tell her to stop?”
He looked up from his book.
“I have.”
“That I was taking her too seriously.”
“When?”
“Twice.”
I sat up.
“What did she say?”
“That I was taking her too seriously.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“She waited until I wasn’t there?”
He hesitated.
“Both times.”
That landed differently.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you already knew she was doing it.”
“She hasn’t done anything else.”
“Not when I wasn’t there.”
Andrew closed his book.
“She hasn’t done anything else.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Just the comments.”
He paused.
He reached over and squeezed my hand.
“I don’t like them. But I also don’t want to make you feel like you have to choose between me and your sister.”
