You, at least, got to be a real person back there in the stockroom.

I know it didn’t feel like a privilege, but nobody ever measured your body for the company’s profit margin.”

We both cried a little, in the undramatic, quiet way of people who don’t have spare energy left for hysterics.

And then my sister—my worshipped, gilded, exhausted sister—picked up the manila folder, read the ER summary all the way through, set it down, and said the thing that ended one family and started another.

“She hit the wrong daughter, and she’s going to stand in front of a judge and call it love.

She’s been calling it love my whole life.