“I miss you,” I blurt out, tears welling. “I know you may never forgive me. I was cold and—” “You should be cold,” she snaps, taking a few steps forward. She tentatively stops, still ten feet separating us. “What happened was fucked up.” I shake my head. “I should be happy that people admire you,” I choke on the words. “You’re my sister, and I love you.” Tears slide down my cheeks. “And I should be so, so happy that you didn’t have to experience what I did.” But deep down, I’ve been wishing for a different outcome. That desire to place pain within my sister has festered guilt too vast to
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