The pelicans had gone.
The sun was fully up now. The ocean was gold.
Melissa spoke.
Very quietly.
“Morgan,” she said.
I looked at her.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “About the wine. And the robe. And the suite. And your office.”
She wiped her eyes.
“And breakfast duty,” she said. “And don’t be difficult.”
She looked at her hands.
“I’ve been saying that to you my whole life,” she said. “Because Dad said it. Because Mom said it. Because it worked. You always gave in.”
She looked up at me.
“I never once thought about what it cost you,” she said.
I looked at my sister.
Thirty-five. Blonde. In her pajamas now. Without my robe. No job. No house. Two kids on the porch with a sheriff’s deputy.
Who’d had everything handed to her. Her whole life. Because she asked.
And who’d never learned how to stand on her own.
