“You gave me the marshmallows out of your cereal,” she said.
“But only the yellow ones.
You said the others were sleeping.”
I began to cry.
Not because everything was forgiven.
Because somewhere beneath all those years, there had been a sister.
The hearing happened three weeks later.
By then, Chloe had given Nora a complete account.
She had corrected her statement and explained how it had been prepared.
Marianne had spoken to my employer, reviewed records, and included what she witnessed the morning after the funeral.
I brought my class schedule.
My pay stubs.
The household accounts Grandpa and I had maintained.
I hated carrying proof that I was a person capable of living my own life.
But Nora sat beside me, and I carried it anyway.
My parents arrived with an attorney who looked increasingly unhappy as the morning progressed.
Mom cried.
Dad talked about concern.
Neither of them mentioned garbage bags.
