I said yes. That was the whole beginning. Thirty-seven years ago.
We grew up three streets apart. We rode the same bus, failed the same algebra test, and ended up, somehow, working at the same insurance company two towns over. People used to stop us at the grocery store and ask if we were sisters. We both had dark hair, the same laugh, and the same crooked little finger on our left hands, bent sideways at the top joint. We used to hook them together and call it our secret handshake.
Our mothers joked that we were more like sisters than friends.
When Paige was seven, her parents split up. Her father, Ron, moved out practically overnight. It was ugly, and Paige was so small and so lost that my mother, Helen, simply packed a bag for her and brought her to our house. She stayed with us for three weeks. My mom tucked her in every night, right next to me, and never once made her feel like a guest.
