She grinned, raising her glass. “To Sebastian. The best reason I never moved to Italy to write feminist crime novels.”
We clinked glasses gently.
I took a sip, then set mine down and picked up my fork again.
“You ever think about that?” I asked softly. “What your life would’ve been like if you didn’t have to raise me?”
She tilted her head, chewing thoughtfully. “Sometimes. In the abstract.”
“And?”
“And nothing.” Her eyes held mine, steady and clear. “There’s no alternate version where I didn’t pick you, Sebastian. Not one. Even on the days when I was crying in a bathroom stall between classes or trying to explain to your teachers why a sixteen-year-old needed to miss school for therapy—none of that made me wish I’d done it differently.”
Guilt settled heavy in my chest, undeterred even after all these years.
“You could’ve had a family by now,” I said quietly.
She smiled, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I do have one. I have you.”
“That’s not what I meant. You could have a husband and children.”
“Maybe, or maybe not. You know my career was always my priority.”
There was a pause, not uncomfortable—just full. Like the space between one page and the next.
“I hate that you had to give up so much,” I said. “You were brilliant. Youarebrilliant. You could’ve been anything.”
She gave a wry smile. “I became a criminal defense attorney. That’s not exactly failure, Sebastian.”
“No, but—”
“But nothing,” she cut in, gently. “You were never a burden. Raising you didn’t ruin my life. Itwasmy life.”
I swallowed hard and looked away, blinking fast.
“Sebastian, I wouldn’t have made it through losing them if I hadn’t had you.”
My throat was tight. I pushed food around my plate for a moment, then looked up again. “You ever think you’ll find someone?”
Her laugh this time was quiet and dry. “You mean someone who doesn’t run screaming when I show up late to dinner with crime scene photos in my bag?”
“I mean someone who deserves you.”
She reached across the table, placing her hand over mine. Her foot patted mine gently under the table.
“Sebastian, you don’t have to feel guilty for anything. My life is my choice. I like how things are. I like not having to account to a man, or worry about kids. I like our weird little tradition—cooking therapy, wine, and living vicariously through your very eventful love life.”
I let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. “It’s not that eventful.”
She raised a knowing brow. “Yeah, right. How’s Candi?”
I groaned. “Can we not talk about that tonight?”
“A thing of the past, is she?” she chuckled. “Is there someone else already, or are you taking a break to rest?”
I wiped my mouth with a napkin and leaned back in my chair. “There might be someone.”
My sister’s eyes lit up the way they did when catching a witness in a lie. “Oh? That’s vague. Vague is interesting. Who is she?”
