My sister tried to reach out in the early years. Letters. Messages. Voicemails left too late at night. I ignored every one.
I told myself listening would only reopen wounds.
What I didn’t admit was that I was afraid. Afraid that if I listened, the anger holding me upright might dissolve, and I wouldn’t know how to stand without it.
Then she got sick.
By the time the news reached me, it was already serious. Still, I stayed away. I convinced myself that distance was protection. That attending her funeral would only reopen something that had finally scarred over.
I was wrong about that too.
The Day I Could No Longer Avoid
When my sister passed, I told my father I wasn’t coming.
He didn’t argue. He didn’t plead.
He simply said, “Please come help me sort her things. I can’t do it alone.”
