But I never imagined silence.
I never imagined my sister looking small.
Not dramatic. Not angry. Not jealous.
Small.
Like a little girl who had dressed up in someone else’s confidence and suddenly realized it did not fit.
Pastor Reynolds stepped back, giving her space.
Ethan squeezed my hand.
“Clara,” he whispered, “you don’t have to keep going.”
I looked at Paige.
Then I looked at the empty chair in the front row where Mom’s blue scarf rested like a folded piece of sky.
“Yes,” I whispered. “I do.”
Paige swallowed hard. Her eyes moved across the letter again.
Then, in a voice so thin it barely reached the second row, she began to read.
“My sweet Paige, if you are reading this, it means you are hurting louder than you are loving.”
A breath moved through the chapel.
Paige stopped.
She looked at me, and I saw something I had not seen in years.
Fear.
Not fear of being judged.
Fear of being known.
She looked back at the page.
“I know you, baby girl. I know the face you wear when you feel forgotten. I know the jokes you make when your heart is breaking. I know the way you sharpen your words before anyone can ask why you are bleeding.”
Paige pressed the letter to her chest.
My father stood suddenly, then sat back down like his knees had forgotten their purpose.
He had always been helpless between us.
When we were children, he called Paige “fire” and me “water.” He said it like a compliment, but it became a prophecy. Paige burned through every room. I learned to move around her.
When she threw tantrums, I was told to be patient.
When she made mistakes, I was told to be understanding.
When she stole attention, I was told I already had enough.
And maybe that was where the wound began.
Not with Paige.
With all of us.
With a family that confused peace with silence.
Paige kept reading.
