I did not open it.

The yellow sticker showed beneath the edge of the folder, and she had no idea where I had just been.

There was a strange grief in that, carrying a secret from my own sister.

We had shared a bedroom as girls.

We had told each other everything, or I had believed we did.

And now I was driving home from a bank with a yellow sticker on a folder and a review quietly opening on her transfer, and she did not know, and I could not tell her, because telling her would only send her running to Chad to ask what to do — and Chad, I was increasingly certain, would know exactly what to do, and none of it would be good for my sister.

So I kept the sticker hidden beneath the edge of the folder, and I let her message sit unopened, and I hated the distance even as I widened it.