Ad
Her toothbrush stayed beside ours.
Her empty bed became the first thing I saw every morning and the last thing I saw every night.
Birthdays became especially painful.
There were still cakes.
Still candles.
Still decorations.
But there was always one chair missing.
Every year, Leila and I silently counted three places even though only two of us remained.
As the years passed, grief changed us.
Leila became distant and sharp.
I became quiet.
Pain didn’t bring us closer.
It pushed us apart.
By the time we turned twenty-one, we barely knew how to talk to each other anymore.
That morning, Mom invited us home for breakfast. DNAtest kits
The dining room was decorated with balloons and streamers.
A small birthday cake sat nearby.
And there, at the table, were three place settings.
Neither Leila nor I commented on it.
Then Mom entered carrying a small wooden box.
Immediately, something inside me tightened.
She placed it carefully between us.
Resting on top was an old envelope.
The handwriting stopped my heart.
read more in next page
