The Missing Sister

by Elle Marr

Angela, on the other hand, was never interested in following such a traditional path. She always munched baguettes to her own beat—obsessed with World War II, literature, and cultures since we were kids. The odd lady out, she liked to say. Hence why she stayed on as a doctoral candidate in the Sorbonne’s history program.

“Fine. I’d just like to get up to her apartment. Whenever you’re ready,” I add, relieved that he’s stopped blubbering. Does that make me heartless? No. It makes me pragmatic, efficient, and no doubt mired in some selfish stage of grief.

My husband would take care of the baby while I worked in oncology research. He’d keep the home tidy and have a cheese plate ready when I arrived home, followed by dinner at seven o’clock. The perfect househusband to make me believe I might deserve our little corner of happiness.

There’s no time left for wavering. To borrow from one of Angela’s favorite figures in history, Winston Churchill—if you’re going through hell, keep going.

Does the Sorbonne study these sites? Do classes study sex workers? Mathieu dutifully explains prostitution has long been decriminalized in France. Only the johns are fined now.