There were once three of us.
Me, Leila, and Nora.
People often say time heals every wound, but some losses don’t heal; they simply learn how to hide beneath the surface.
Ours was one of them.
After Nora died, strangers began 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.
We stopped correcting people.
Not because we forgot.
Because remembering hurt.
Every day.
For ten years.
Then, on our twenty-first birthday, our mother handed us a box.
And everything changed.
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