Im writing this while the washing machine hums and spins its endless circles. Its nearly two in the morning. The house is blanketed in hush, but inside my mind its a carnival of noise wild, clanging, tangled.
Im forty-one. I have two sons ones fifteen, the other twelve. Im an accountant by trade. My days have always been stitched together with lists, accounts, neat little schedules. Thats what makes me feel anchored.
And all my life, Ive clung to the idea that family comes before all.
Especially my sister.
Shes younger than me. Always the delicate one. Mum and Dad fussed over her, guarded her from the world. When her marriage fell apart three years ago, I was the first to open my door.
Stay with us for a bit, until you get sorted.
That was how it all began.
At first, it was only meant to be for a short spell.
Then it turned into a month.
Then a year.
She had no money, no job, nowhere else to go. I cooked for everyone. I did the washing. I paid the bills.
My husband sometimes let out a sigh, but never a word.
Shes your sister, after all.
And Id echo that to myself.
But small things began to itch at the edges.
A hush in the kitchen when I walked in. Gentle laughter drifting from the lounge that cut off the moment I entered. My husbands phone suddenly always lying face-down.
One night, I came home early from work a migraine throbbing behind my eyes.
The house was eerily silent.
I stepped into the living room.
And there they were.
Nothing that would make front-page scandal. Sitting on the sofa. Close. Too close. Her hand resting on his.
I froze.
So did they.
Whats going on? I managed.
My husband yanked his hand away.
Nothing.
My sisters smile flickered, nervous.
We were just talking.
About what?
Silence.
My heart thudded, drumming a storm in my chest.
How long? I breathed.
How long what? he said.
I stared at my sister.
She dropped her eyes.
And whispered, Its not what you think.
I laughed, short and hollow as a cracked bell.
Thats the worlds favourite lie.
Then my husband scowled.
You always make a scene.
As if I was the trouble, the mess. As if I was the one breaking the world apart.
I stood up. Walked to the guest room door. Opened it wide.
Pack your things.
She looked at me, stricken.
Where am I supposed to go?
I dont know.
Her eyes brimmed with tears.
Im your sister.
Thats exactly why it hurts.
Now shes at our parents. Mum wont speak to me.
She managed just one cold phrase across the phone:
How could you throw out your own sister?
And so Im here, soaking in the restless whir of the washing machine, wondering
Is it worse to lose your sister,
or to pretend you dont see whats right in front of you?
