I was always smoothing things over. Adjusting. Anticipating. Making room.
My younger sister, Lily, had never been expected to do any of that.
Lily was twenty-eight when I got engaged. She was beautiful in the effortless way that caused strangers to forgive her before she had done anything worth forgiving. She had thick blond hair, big blue eyes, a reckless laugh, and the kind of charisma that could fill a room before she even opened a door. People described her as “free-spirited,” which is a lovely term families use when one child burns things down and everyone agrees to call the smoke sunshine.
I was the dependable one.
Lily was the exciting one.
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