“And your sister?” “What about her?” “How did she take the news?” You offer another of your evasive shrugs. “People deal with loss in different ways.” “Were the two of you close?” “She raised me,” you say, not quite an answer. “After my mother went away. She had just turned seventeen, but she stepped into my mother’s shoes as if she’d been training for it all her life. She dedicated every waking moment to taking care of my father, running his house, writing his letters, hosting his dinner parties. She became indispensable to him.” There was something vaguely discomfiting about the description,
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yes, alarm bells should be ringing
