She was working, last I heard, as an entry-level receptionist at a tire depot, living in a small dark apartment on the edge of the city.

Occasionally my mother dropped off groceries and reported back, in subdued tones, that Gwen still blamed everyone but herself.

In Gwen’s telling, Liam was a manipulative child, David was a monster, and I was a jealous sister who had orchestrated her downfall.

I never argued when my mother relayed these things.

I simply nodded, and poured her a cup of tea, and changed the subject to Maya’s college applications.

Because I had learned, over that year and a half, a thing about people like my sister that it took me most of my life to accept: that some people would rather burn in the fire of their own bitterness than ever admit they were the one holding the match.