Episode 4: The Dinner That Wasn't
That evening, Clara offered to cook dinner. I said yes, partly because I didn't have the energy to say no, partly because I was curious if she still remembered how.
She moved around the kitchen like a memory—pulling out spices, humming quietly, opening drawers without asking. For a moment, it felt almost normal. Like a night from ten years ago, before everything fractured.
I set the table in silence. Two plates. Two glasses. Forks on the left. Knives on the right. Everything in its place. That's how I've survived: rules and routines.
She made pasta. Simple, with tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil she'd bought that morning.
When we sat, she smiled. "Smells like the old days."
I picked up my fork. "Smells better than the old days."
She laughed softly, but there was something behind her eyes—like she was waiting for something. Or working up the courage to say it.
Halfway through the meal, she finally spoke.
"I got a job offer. Back in the city."
My fork paused midair.
"It's not finalized yet," she added quickly. "But it's something steady. Teaching art to kids. It's what I always wanted."
I chewed slowly. Swallowed.
"How soon would you leave?"
"If I take it? A few weeks."
I nodded. Looked down at my plate. Suddenly, the food had no taste.
"I wasn't planning to tell you today," she admitted. "But I didn't want to lie. Not again."
The word again landed hard.
"I didn't ask you to stay," I said.
"But do you want me to?"
That was the question, wasn't it?
Wanting and needing are different things. I needed her years ago, when everything fell apart. I needed her to stay when our mother died, when the weight became too much for one person to carry.
Now? Now I'd built a life alone. And she was asking if I wanted to reopen doors I'd nailed shut.
"I don't know," I said honestly. "I don't know if I know how to have a sister anymore."
Her eyes shimmered, but she didn't cry.
"Me neither," she whispered.
We finished the meal in silence.
Later that night, I stood at the kitchen sink washing dishes while she sat at the table, sketching something in a notebook.
I glanced at her.
"What are you drawing?"
She turned it around.
It was a sketch of the house. Our house. Windows glowing with warm light. Two figures standing at the front door. One slightly taller. Both looking unsure—but close.
I stared at it for a long time.
Maybe healing isn't about fixing everything at once. Maybe it's about one dinner. One sketch. One truth spoken out loud.
And maybe—just maybe—it's about learning to be sisters again, even if we don't remember how.