A breath moved through the chapel.
Paige stopped.
She looked at me, and I saw something I had not seen in years.
Fear.
Not fear of being judged.
Fear of being known.
She looked back at the page.
“I know you, baby girl. I know the face you wear when you feel forgotten. I know the jokes you make when your heart is breaking. I know the way you sharpen your words before anyone can ask why you are bleeding.”
Paige pressed the letter to her chest.
My father stood suddenly, then sat back down like his knees had forgotten their purpose.
He had always been helpless between us.
When we were children, he called Paige “fire” and me “water.” He said it like a compliment, but it became a prophecy. Paige burned through every room. I learned to move around her.
When she threw tantrums, I was told to be patient.
