A dent in a bedroom wall.
“Was the shower singing me?” I asked.
“You were terrible.”
“That was definitely you.”
For half a second, we almost sounded like sisters again.
Then I asked the question that mattered.
“When did you remember me?”
Clara looked down.
“Sarah…”
“How long?”
Her eyes filled.
“Six years ago.”
Everything inside me went still.
“You’ve known I was alive for six years?”
“Yes.”
“And you knew I believed you were dead?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Did you call?”
“I tried once.”
“Once?”
“I found Mom and Dad’s old number. It had been disconnected.”
“And after that?”
“I wrote letters.”
“Did you send them?”
She said nothing.
I laughed bitterly.
“Then you wrote them for yourself, Clara. Not for us.”
She flinched.
I grabbed my purse.
“Sarah, wait.”
“You had six years.”
I left.
That night, I didn’t tell Mom and Dad.
That was my choice.
