fight about before they understand how much they will one day miss the noise, Nora stepped between us.
“She had it yesterday,” Leila would protest.
“And you’ll have it tomorrow,” Nora would say, handing me the doll or sweater or whatever tiny treasure had started the battle. “Gia gets it today.”
“You always take her side.”
“I take the side of peace,” Nora would declare.
Then she would pull some ridiculous face, and somehow even Leila would laugh.
Nora was sunshine in human form.
She softened every room she entered.
She tied our shoelaces before school, saved the red candies for Leila because they were her favorite, and always slept in the middle during storms because she believed leaders protected both sides.
I still remember one thunderstorm when a crack of thunder shook the windows.
Leila climbed into bed first, dragging her stuffed rabbit behind her.
I followed a few minutes later, pretending not to be scared.
Without even opening her eyes, Nora lifted the blanket.
“Both of you are terrible at being brave,” she mumbled.
Leila curled against her left side.
I pressed against her right.
“You’re scared too,” I whispered.
“No,” Nora said. “I’m responsible.”
She should have been worrying about homework, messy hair, and whether Mom would let us stay up late on Fridays.
Instead, even then, she acted as though love meant standing guard.
When Everything Changed
Then Nora got sick.
At first, the adults whispered around us as if quiet voices could keep the truth from reaching us.
But Nora knew.
Of course she knew.
Nora always knew when someone was lying, especially when they were trying to do it kindly.
I remember her first hospital stay.
The smell of sanitizer.
The harsh lights.
The cartoon stickers on the walls that failed to make the room feel less frightening.
Leila couldn’t sit still. She kept picking at her sweater sleeve until Mom gently stopped her.
“Stop that, sweetheart.”
“What’s wrong with Nora?” Leila asked.
Mom looked toward the door as though an answer might walk through it and save her.
“She’s just very tired.”
Nora rolled her eyes from the hospital bed.
“I’m not a baby, Mom.”
Mom’s lips trembled.
Then Nora turned to us and smiled.
The smile was smaller than usual, but it was still hers.
“Don’t look like that,” she told us. “You both look weird when you’re worried.”
Leila burst into tears.
I didn’t.
Not then.
I stood frozen at the foot of the bed, gripping the metal rail so tightly that my hands hurt.
I thought that if I held on hard enough, nothing could move.
Not time.
Not sickness.
Not Nora.
She was only eleven years old.
Tiny beneath hospital blankets.
Her wrists were so thin that Mom cried whenever she thought we weren’t looking.
When Nora died, the house forgot how to be loud.
No one ever said it aloud, but I felt it everywhere.
In the hallway where her slippers remained untouched for three weeks because Mom couldn’t move them.
In the bathroom where her toothbrush still stood beside ours.
In the bedroom we had shared, where Leila slept facing the wall while I stared at Nora’s empty bed until morning.
After Nora, birthdays became strange.
There were still balloons.
Still cake.
Still candles.
But there was always one chair missing.
Every year, Leila and I sat side by side, pretending not to notice the empty space where Nora should have been.
We blew out candles for two.
But silently, we counted three.
At twelve, I wished for Nora to come back.
At thirteen, I wished Mom would stop crying in the laundry room.
At fourteen, I wished Leila would talk to me the way she used to.
Losing Nora changed us.
People always said grief was supposed to bring families
