“We miss you too.”
“I call.”
“You call while driving to work or cleaning equipment. You visit for two nights and never unpack.”
“I unpacked jeans.”
“A significant breakthrough.”
She picked at a loose thread on the bedspread.
“We worried when you moved to Florida.”
“I know.”
“We worried less when you sounded happy.”
“I am happy.”
“I believe you.”
There was no accusation in her voice.
That made me listen.
“You built a good life,” she said. “You found people who love you. You found work that matters. You stopped living as if every email was a fire.”
“Yes.”
“But sometimes I wonder whether you chose peace or a life where nothing could surprise you.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
I looked toward Molly’s photograph.
“Are you asking whether I’ve moved on?”
“No.”
The answer came immediately.
“You do not move on from your sister. You carry her differently.”
I swallowed.
“Then what are you asking?”
“Whether you’ve learned to live with losing her, or spent three years arranging your life so you never risk losing anyone else.”
I stared at my hands.
“That’s unfair.”
“Possibly.”
“I have friends.”
