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.
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:
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.
Mom laughed through her tears.
I smiled and kept reading.
I forced myself to continue.
My voice broke on the next line.
The room blurred.
At the bottom of the letter was one last sentence.
Beneath it was a tiny cassette tape and a sticky note.
Mom gasped. “I forgot she had that recorder.”
Leila stared at it. “Do we even have something to play this on?”
Mom stood quickly. “Your father’s old stereo is in the den.”
We followed her with the tape like it was made of glass.
Mom pushed it into the player. For a moment, there was only static.
Then Nora’s voice filled the room.
Small. Thin. Alive.
“Hi, Gia. Hi, Leila. Hi, Mom. If this works, I am basically a genius.”
Nora continued.
“I wanted you to hear me say it. I am not mad that I have to go. I am sad, but I am not mad. I got to be your sister. That was the best thing.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“And I need to tell you a secret,” Nora said.
My heart stopped.
“I heard you two crying when you thought I was asleep. Gia, you asked God to take you instead. Leila, you said you wished you were the sick one because you thought you were stronger.”
Leila turned toward me, stunned.
I could barely breathe.
“You were both wrong. Nobody should have taken your place. You have to stay because you have lives to live. You have to stay for me.”
The tape clicked, then continued.
“So on our 21st birthday, do not just remember the day I am not there. Remember this too. I loved you first. I loved you last. And I am still your sister.”
The tape ended.
No one spoke.
Then Leila wrapped her arms around me, and Mom folded herself around both of us.
That day, we cut three slices of cake.
One for Leila.
One for Nora.
And for the first time since she died, the empty chair did not feel like a wound.
It felt like a place saved for love.
