She cried at the sad parts of cartoons and at the happy parts too, and she was the child who would notice when I’d had a hard day at the store and climb into my lap without a word and just sit there, being small and warm against my chest, fixing me the only way she knew how.

Frankie was the bright one, the one who came into every room like she’d been personally invited.

She waved at strangers.

She made friends in checkout lines.

She had a smile that could talk her out of any trouble and frequently did, and she aimed it at me across every gymnasium and auditorium of their childhood, a little private beacon that meant I see you out there, Dad. And Tess — Tess was the serious one, the fierce one, the one who at four years old would fold her arms and inform me of the ways my plans were flawed.

She read early and she read constantly and she watched everything with a steady, measuring gaze, and when Tess decided something was true, no force on earth could talk her out of it.