“What?”
“She said she finally stopped worrying about whether we’d become sisters.”
“Why?”
Naomi smiled.
“Because she realized we already had.”
I looked around the house one last time.
For most of my childhood, I believed a stranger had come through that front door and stolen part of my family.
Twenty years later, I finally understood what had really happened.
My father had left behind two daughters.
And my mother—hurt, furious, imperfect and far braver than I ever understood—had made sure neither one of us had to grow up without a sister.
Naomi reached for my hand.
