There were once three sisters.
Me, Leila, and Nora.
People often assume time heals every wound, but some losses simply learn how to hide beneath the surface. Ours was one of them.
After Nora died, strangers started referring to Leila and me as twins. It was easier for them that way. Easier than acknowledging there had once been three little girls instead of two.
But Leila and I never felt like twins.
We felt like fragments of something that had been broken apart.
Nora had been older by seven minutes, a fact she treated as if it gave her permanent authority over our lives.
“I’m the oldest,” she would announce proudly. “That means I make the decisions.”
Leila would groan every single time.
“Seven minutes isn’t being older.”
“It absolutely is,” Nora would reply with a grin.
Those arguments became the soundtrack of our childhood.
Laughter echoed through hallways. Pillows flew across bedrooms. Crayons mysteriously appeared on walls despite repeated warnings from our exhausted mother.
Whenever Leila and I argued over toys, clothes, or seats at the dinner table, Nora stepped in like a tiny diplomat.
“She had it yesterday,” Leila would complain.
“And you can have it tomorrow,” Nora would answer calmly. “Today it’s Gia’s turn.”
“You always take her side.”
“No,” Nora would insist. “I take the side of peace.”
Then she would make a ridiculous face until we both burst out laughing.
That was Nora.
She carried sunshine wherever she went.
She tied our shoelaces when we were running late. She secretly saved Leila’s favorite candies. During thunderstorms, she always slept between us because she believed it was her job to protect both sides.
One stormy night, thunder rattled the windows so hard the entire house shook.
Leila climbed into Nora’s bed first.
I followed shortly afterward.
