I never thought my sister giving birth would be the moment my life split cleanly in half.
For weeks, I had told myself to be generous.
Sierra was scared.
Sierra was tired.
Sierra was my sister, even if we had spent most of our lives standing on opposite sides of our mother’s affection like two women waiting for the same door to open.
Our mother had always made loving us feel like a competition.
Sierra got softness.
I got expectations.
Sierra got excuses.
I got lectures.
When Sierra was late on rent, there was always a reason.
When I cried because Kevin and I were bleeding money into fertility treatments, there was always a lesson about patience, gratitude, and not making everything about myself.
I used to think that was just how families worked.
Someone always got carried.
Someone always did the carrying.
Kevin knew that about me.
He knew I was the one who remembered birthdays, paid bills before reminders turned red, sent grocery money without asking for receipts, and stayed calm because everybody else had already claimed the right to fall apart.
He had married that part of me.
Or maybe he had just learned how to use it.
The morning Sierra gave birth, I woke up before my alarm.
It was still gray outside, the kind of early light that makes a bedroom look colder than it is.
Kevin was already gone.
He had told me the night before that he had an early meeting, some client emergency, some work problem that required him to leave before sunrise.
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