question she had asked me that morning.
“Are you still Mom’s sister?”
Lina looked at me.
She was standing there in her white wedding dress.
My younger sister.
The woman who had spent months behaving as though my pain was simply an inconvenient obstacle to everyone else’s happiness.
For once, she had nothing to say.
No explanation.
No new label.
Nothing.
Amelia walked back toward the bench and picked up her candle.
Ryan watched her.
“What are you doing?”
She sniffed.
“I’m taking mine home.”
Then she headed toward the
