Then, at Sofia’s funeral, Vanessa arrived deeply tanned beside my husband, both of them pulling matching suitcases from the same secret holiday.
The entire cemetery fell silent.
Daniel wore the pale linen shirt I had packed for the anniversary trip we had postponed. Vanessa hid behind oversized sunglasses and a white resort dress, looking as though grief were simply another occasion she had arrived too late to attend.
The wheels of their luggage clattered across the stone walkway.
“Traffic from the airport,” Vanessa said, breathless but strangely composed. “Where is she?”
I stared directly at my sister.
“Inside the coffin.”
Her mouth fell open.
Daniel immediately stepped between us.
“Emma, this isn’t the place.”
Not the place.
As though there could be a better location to explain why Sofia had spent the final six hours of her life asking whether her mother was coming.
She had collapsed at school because of complications from the heart condition Vanessa had always treated as an inconvenience.
