I always thought my sister and I would be the kind of women who grew old side by side—sharing recipes, swapping hand-me-down Halloween costumes for our kids, finishing each other’s rants over coffee. Claire was the polished one, 38 and forever composed, the kind of person who made a grocery run look like a magazine spread. I was 34, chronically five minutes late, hair in a lopsided bun, heart on my sleeve. My life was loud, imperfect, and sticky with little fingerprints—Liam’s ceaseless questions, Sophie’s belief that butterflies understood her when she whispered. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was full….CONTINUE READING BELOW
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