You have no idea how tired I am.

Chelsea came over the next evening.

My sister and I had the first true, unfiltered conversation of our adult lives at my sticky kitchen table, over cups of decaf she kept forgetting to drink.

I’d spent my whole childhood believing she lived in the sun.

She’d spent it, it turns out, living trapped under a heat lamp.

She told me things in a flat, careful voice, like someone unpacking a box she’d taped shut years ago.