“It’s for a memorial garden at our church. My fiancé’s family lost a young girl years ago.”
Something uncomfortable tightened inside my chest.
“I’m sorry.”
Clara gave me a sad smile.
“They still talk about her constantly. Apparently, she was very young.”
I stared at Clara’s engagement ring.
The ring Julian had shown my parents months earlier.
The ring I had heard my mother bragging about.
Every instinct inside me wanted to say:
I’m Julian’s sister.
I don’t live in Atlanta.
I’m standing right in front of you.
Instead, I remained silent.
I helped Clara choose the healthiest white dogwood we had.
I wrapped the root ball.
Completed the care instructions.
And watched her load it into her Mercedes.
I assumed the memorial was for some cousin.
Maybe an aunt.
Maybe a child who had died before I was born.
I had no idea.
Six months later, I learned the truth.
And that truth destroyed whatever remained of my relationship with my family.
I had been sent away again for one of Julian and Clara’s pre-wedding dinners.
That evening, after driving several miles, I realized I had forgotten medication on my nightstand.
I didn’t want to spend the weekend without it.
Around ten, I quietly returned home.
I knew the guests would probably be in the formal dining room.
I entered through the mudroom with my spare key.
Moving silently through that house had become second nature.
I was halfway down the hallway toward my bedroom when I heard voices.
I stopped.
Clara’s mother, Victoria, was standing outside my bedroom.
Beside her was my mother.
Eleanor held a lace handkerchief to her face.
Her shoulders trembled.
“Oh, Victoria,” she whispered. “Some days I still can’t bring myself to open this door.”
Victoria put an arm around her.
“You’ve been so strong.”
My mother looked toward my locked bedroom.
“It’s exactly the way she left it.”
Victoria sighed.
