My sister dumped a glass of wine all over my six-year-old son’s birthday artwork while the room filled with laughter. Mom rushed to protect the tablecloth—not my child. I said nothing, until my dad suddenly stood up, removed his wedding ring, and let it fall into the pool of red. Then he pulled out a leather notebook he’d kept hidden for years… and ten minutes later…

Finally, Jessica looked at me.

“Sarah,” she whispered.

My name had never sounded like that in her mouth before. Not like a weapon. Not like an insult. Like a plea.

“Tell him he’s crazy,” she said. “Tell him he can’t do this to me. I’m your sister.”

I thought of every time she’d said those words as justification. I’m your sister. Of course you’ll watch my dog. I’m your sister. Of course you’ll lend me money. I’m your sister. Of course you’ll let me take the bedroom with the window.

I thought of the way Jacob’s shoulders had folded in on themselves when the wine hit his painting.

I thought of my own childhood, of Jessica tearing my science fair project to pieces and Mom saying, “She didn’t mean it, she’s just under stress. Don’t make such a big deal.”

I looked at my sister.

The girl who had terrorized me for three decades. The woman who had never once apologized for the harm she’d caused, only demanded more cushioning from the world when she fell.

I felt something heavy and sharp in my chest. Not hate. Grief, maybe, for what could have been. For the sister I’d once hoped she might become.

“You should hurry,” I said.

My voice sounded like someone else’s. Calm. Cold. Clean.

“Traffic is going to be terrible.”

She stared at me like I’d slapped her. Her lips parted, then pressed together. For a moment, I thought she might throw her glass, or scream, or push past me toward Jacob like a cornered animal.

Then she turned.

She grabbed her coat in jerky, angry motions. My mother followed suit, sobbing, protesting, grabbing at random items—her purse, a cardigan, a framed photo off the mantel without even looking at which one it was.

The door slammed behind them.

The rain roared in their wake.

For a long time, no one moved.

The cabin felt so different without their noise, without my mother’s nervous chatter and Jessica’s constant commentary. The silence was deep and raw and ringing.

Jacob moved first.

He slid off his chair and came around to my side, pressing his face into my hip. I rested a shaking hand on his head. Only then did I realize my own cheeks were wet.

My father walked slowly back to the table and picked up the soaked painting, wedding ring still sunk in its center like a sunken coin in a dark sea.

“I think,” he said quietly, “we might be done with family holidays.”

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