The author admits to being biased in favor of her sister.
A month is an odd unit of time for sibling visitation. Too long for a vacation, too short for a cohabitation experiment. But a month, I’ve learned, is exactly long enough for the masks to slip — first the social ones, then the defensive ones, and finally, the ones we didn’t know we were wearing.
[Your Name]
No hug. No speech. Just a calendar reminder, already set.
To my sister, for not pretending either. To the hydrangeas. To the burned garlic.