I remembered loving her long before I understood what our parents were teaching us.
Part of me still wanted to comfort her.
But loving someone didn’t mean I had to let them hurt me again.
“Can you help us?” she whispered. “Just this once?”
I shook my head.
“I won’t give you my house. I won’t pay your mortgage. And I won’t lie to protect you from what you did.”
“I am your sister.”
“And I was your sister when you helped them try to take my home.”
She stared at me as though she had never considered that our relationship could have consequences.
Then she asked the question I had been waiting to hear.
“Do you hate me?”
I thought about it carefully.
“No. But I don’t trust you.”
Somehow, that answer hurt her more than anger would have.
She wiped her face and stepped away from the door.
