I visited Dad once during those weeks.
He said Laura's name without whispering it.
I didn't forgive him.
He said Laura's name.
***
On Sunday, Sophie sat at my kitchen table coloring while the sunflower sweater rested beside me.
"Grandma?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you still waiting for your sister?"
I looked at the brown petal Mom had once offered to fix.
"Grandma?"
"No."
Sophie frowned.
"But don't you want her to come?"
"I do."
"Then aren't you waiting?"
I smiled.
"I do."
"No, sweetheart. There's a difference between leaving a door open and standing in it."
I folded the sweater carefully.
For 40 years, Laura's absence had shaped my life.
Dad had made one terrible choice.
Laura had made many after it.
"No, sweetheart."
And I had spent decades paying for both.
Not anymore.
If my sister came, I'd hear her out.
If she didn't, I'd still wake up tomorrow.
For the first time since 1986, that felt like enough.
