Paige had been making noise her whole life.
I reached for her hand.
She stared at our fingers like she did not trust them.
“You’re my sister,” I said. “That’s not all you are. But it’s where we can start.”
She squeezed my hand once.
Not too hard.
Just enough.
Then the door behind us opened.
Ethan stepped out, holding two slices of cake.
“I’m interrupting,” he said.
“Yes,” Paige said.
“No,” I said at the same time.
He smiled and handed us each a plate.
“I figured emotional breakthroughs require frosting.”
Paige stared at him, then laughed.
A real laugh.
Not sharp. Not performative.
Real.
I realized I had missed that sound.
Not because Paige deserved instant forgiveness.
But because before we were rivals, before we were women carrying old wounds into new rooms, we had been little girls hiding under the kitchen table, stealing cookie dough while Mom pretended not to see.
