Leila opened her bundle next.
Her hands shook so badly that I reached over and steadied the ribbon for her. She did not pull away.
Inside Leila’s bundle was a red candy wrapper, pressed flat and saved like treasure, a small plastic ring from one of our childhood games, and a letter.
Leila read the first line silently, then made a sound that broke something inside me.
“What does it say?” I asked gently.
She swallowed hard and read aloud.
“Dear Leila,
You probably rolled your eyes when you saw this. I can see you doing it. You roll your eyes when you are sad because you do not want people to know.”
Leila covered her face.
Mom sat down slowly, as if her knees had given up.
Leila kept reading, her voice shaking.
“You are not mean. You are scared. There is a difference. Sometimes you yell because crying makes you feel weak, but you are not weak. You are the bravest person I know because you feel angry and sad and still keep standing.”
A tear dropped onto the paper.
I had spent years thinking Leila’s sharpness meant she blamed me somehow. Maybe she thought the wrong sister had survived. Maybe she hated that I reminded her of Nora. But as I watched her bend over that letter, I realized she had been drowning beside me the whole time.
I just never reached for her.
Leila looked at me, her face stripped bare of every wall she had built.
“I missed her so much,” she admitted.
“I know,” I said.
“No, Gia.” Her voice cracked. “I missed you too.”
The words hit me harder than I expected.
I moved around the table and wrapped my arms around her. At first, she froze. Then she grabbed me like she was afraid I would disappear too.
Mom began to cry openly.
For a while, the three of us just held on.
When we finally pulled apart, the last bundle remained between us.
Both our names were written on it.
Leila wiped her face. “Together?”
I nodded. “Together.”
We untied the ribbon.
Inside was a stack of photographs, a folded paper crown, and one final envelope. On the envelope, Nora had written:
“READ THIS OUT LOUD. NO CHEATING.”
Leila gave a watery laugh. “Still bossy.”
“She was older,” I said.
“By seven minutes,” Leila replied.
For the first time in years, saying it did not hurt as much.
I opened the envelope.
“Dear Gia and Leila,
If you are 21, that means you are grown-ups, which is weird because I still think of us as 11. Maybe you are wearing fancy shoes. Maybe you have jobs. Maybe one of you is married, which is disgusting but fine.”
Mom laughed through her tears.
I smiled and kept reading.
“I need you both to promise me something. Do not let me become the space between you. I am scared that when I go, you will look at each other and only remember I am missing. But you are not just the two who stayed.
You are Gia and Leila. You are my sisters. You were my favorite people before I got sick, and you will still be my favorite people after.”
Leila pressed her forehead against my shoulder.
I forced myself to continue.
