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“I should have defended you.”

“Yes.”

“I can’t undo any of it.”

“No.”

My mother nods, accepting every answer.

“But I’m here now.”

It isn’t forgiveness. Not yet.

But Mabel turns her hand and threads their fingers together. Look at their joined hands.

I’ve spent the past year protecting Mabel from this exact moment. Keeping her illness from my mother, redirecting mail, building walls around the life Mabel chose because she asked me to.

I thought protecting her meant making sure this never happened. Against all odds, it looks like something they both needed.

My mother stands.

Mabel watches her warily. “What are you doing?”

“I would like to hug my sister.”

“You always did announce affection like a military maneuver.”

“And you always criticized it to avoid admitting you wanted one.”

For the first time, Mabel’s mouth twitches.

Mom leans carefully over the bed, avoiding the IV line, and puts her arms around her.

Mabel remains rigid for half a second.

Then she folds.

Her arms close around Mom’s shoulders, and both of them begin crying. Not elegant tears. The kind that shake their bodies and make breathing difficult.

I look away, giving them the small privacy a hospital room allows.

“You’re doing the chin thing,” Mom says eventually, her voice muffled against Mabel’s hair.

Mabel makes a wet, startled sound that becomes a laugh.

“I haven’t heard that in a while.”

“You haven’t stopped doing it.”

“I do not have a chin thing.”

“You absolutely do. It starts wobbling whenever you’re about to cry and pretend you’re furious.”

Mabel laughs again.

Something inside my chest finally releases.

“I’ll leave you two to catch up.”