When I came home from my graduate program for spring break, I knew I would be out of Syracuse for more than two weeks. The pandemic was ticking up on my timeline, the Ivy Leagues were moving full semesters online, and my school would likely follow. My younger sisters, both in college, were likewise sent home. I thought my older sister would stay away. Serving in the Peace Corps in Sierra Leone, it seemed unlikely she would be pulled. However, she was soon taken out of West Africa, routed through Europe and the American Midwest, and brought back to New York State and to us. 2020 was the year of four twentysomething sisters, diverted, living once again under the same roof. My older sister and I have had a tense and complicated relationship for most of our lives, and I was unexcited at the prospect of bunking together in the attic. I blame her for many of my faults, unfair as that may be. My defensiveness, my intense fear of being vulnerable, my possessiveness: these I trace to her. There are a few stories I tell about her when first explaining our relationship. One is her pushing me into the deep end of a pool before I knew how to swim. The second is her taking my (very thick) middle school cell phone and chucking it at the mini Zen Garden I had bought at Dollar Tree, chipping a sizable chuck from the corner (“she ruined my Zen,” I tell people). There's the time I performed in my first school musical, and she told me: “you weren't as bad as I thought you'd be” (her version of a compliment). None of these are very bad and, truthfully, she wasn't a Very Bad sister. Yet these instances characterize my relationship with her. She was violent, invaded my space and property, and any time I was proud of something she insulted it. I kneeled; she stood on me. Even now, sometimes, I'll tell her something she did, something that hurt me way back when. “Oh that was a good one,” she'll say. She cut my favorite necklace in half and threw it in the garden. She slammed my head against the wall for eating her Goldfish. “I should write these down,” she smiles. She sprit in my hair, screamed at me when she lost her phone, hit me in front of my friends. - Everything we see in each other is colored by expectation and the need to build a differentiated identity for ourselves. We project freely and our defensiveness is reflexive. We are fonts of unsolicited advice and unwelcome criticism. There's a judgement there: we assume we know each other best (or truest) even though each one of us withholds so much. Our presumption of knowledge is not so much about events but character. As though the two are not related. We believe we know each other best and believe that none of the others really knows us. But there are these moments we decide to suspend all reality and laugh at some novel bit or deprecating observation, times when we decide not to be self-conscious and let ourselves take the jab-- we enjoy it. There are times when the joke is good, or when we willingly do favors for one another, or when we all cohort as siblings for parental leverage. There are times when the low snickering and secrecy feel nostalgic of a happy childhood. - Tonight, Julia was giggle-screaming at Rachel about a centipede which had fallen from the ceiling of her room. She couldn't find the monster and absolutely COULD NOT sleep knowing it was waiting somewhere to crawl into her mouth while she slept. She came downstairs to beg for help, asking myself and Ashley to PLEASE come up to her room, find the centipede, and catch it. I lay horizontally across Julia's bed, the flashlight of my phone pointed at the corner of floor where the centipede had apparently landed. Hanging my head over the edge of the bed to look beneath, I found: three hair ties, a barrette, a Christmas chocolate, dust, a plastic toy (this to Ashley for her enjoyment), and a Spanish-language flyer which, when moved, revealed a centipede. Ashley goading me to touch the centipede felt like I was soon to be the butt of a joke, so I made her do it instead. She assumed the post with me holding the flashlight above her. Julia had provided an empty Tylenol bottle for capture. It was an awkward angle, and Ashley was having trouble. Julia tossed me a magazine to squish the bug, but she missed horribly, and the rogue copy of The Atlantic landed near Ashley's head in the corner, scaring the centipede. This led to Ashley attempting to resign the task and blaming Julia, Julia admitting fault but BEGGING us to stay, and the centipede once again being found on the floor, opposite the side of the bed where it had started. Ashley acquiesced attempted to nudge and scoop the centipede into the bottle. The window was open and waiting for the poor creature's defenestration. It wasn't working well. “Kill it,” I said again. “Just do it.” As the centipede ran, Ashley took the magazine, dropped it on top of the bug, and gave one large, socked step. “You can deal with this,” she said to Julia.

“I don't want to think about it." “I know. But we're going to wish we'd talked about it before it happens,” I remind her. “It was so hard to tell you that I'm moving to Ohio,” she admits. Moving to Ohio… It echoes in my mind: Moving to Ohio… moving to Ohio… moving to Ohio... Wait. MOVING to Ohio?! Not just going back — Moving. Permanently. It hits me. My sister is moving away for good. We cry. For hours we force ourselves awake just so we can soak up these last few moments together before it happens -- before reality comes and whisks her away. We stay as close together as we can. Sometimes we're talking, running through memories both good and bad, confiding our fears of this new reality, looking back on the sisterhood we never want to lose. We've built something strong, Ana and I. We've built the most unique, sure friendship I have ever known. Sometimes, we just sit in silence. My sob breaks in, and Ana's hand is never far. She comforts me. Sobs shake my body and break my heart. It can't be real. Ana pulls my tear-streaked face closer to hers. Her left hand grips mine, and her free hand begins to stroke my hair. Like she always has, Ana comforts me. I know she would do anything to make me feel safe. The best part? All she has to do is be there and be herself for that to happen. There's an unmatched power in my sister's tender, intense love toward me. Something delicate and gentle lands on my face. It's Ana's kiss. I am still; I let her do it. I would never let anyone else. But I know I'm safe with Ana. And then we just sit together, breathing in every sweet breath of the last night together we'll be graced with for a long time. We're in awe of how precious we always will be to each other. We soak in every bit of this time, lingering in sweet sisterhood, hoping it doesn't vanish as a dream does when we wake up tomorrow morning. We silently acknowledge the special place we will always hold in one another's hearts, simply hushed, almost unable to believe we got to be sisters in the first place. We love each other. We wish the sun would take its time in rising, but we also know that dawn ushers in Ohio, and Ohio bubbles with the promise of a great, fresh start for Ana. We still just don't want tonight to end. We don't know how we'll deal with the weirdness of tomorrow apart, and all the tomorrows that will follow. But tears are tiring us out. We finally plug in to music and lay down to try to get some sleep… next to each other, of course, eyes fixed on one another's, and we hold hands. We never want to let go, but we know we'll have to, come morning. We're not missing a beat till then. But it is late, so I fool myself, suggesting, “Let's go to sleep.” "Okay," my sister plays along. My eyelids fall together and immediately brim with tears. I stifle them for a second, but soon they give way. Ana's still there. Her gentle hand reaches up, and without a word, she wipes the big tears away from my eyes. I look into hers. She's so beautiful.

Once upon a time, you couldn't hurt a princess. In the beginning I pretended I didn't, but To the man who sneaks in and calls me his princess, I know it's you. I recognize your hands, your breath, your arms, and your noises. But you must know that I do. Your hands―the ones around my throat that tie those knots around my wrists at night― The same that I watch pack my lunch in the morning. Your breath―the first thing I hear when you hover near my ear, biting my neck at night― The same that pants after a flight of stairs and smells of garlic. Your arms―the heavy weights on my legs at night― The same that Sis and I clung onto as a little girls. And your noises―the groans and moans and spine-tingling whispers I hear at night― The same that come from Mommy's bedroom on the weekends. I know who you are, Yet I'm a good Daddy's princess and try not to squeal; I sit politely at family meals, like a real princess would. I never complain about the stains on my sheets or gowns, Or ask questions about our nightly interactions. I'm a good little secret-keeper; I never say a word. I'm a great actress too. As you know, I can play pretend. But pretending to forget is easier than pretending to not feel pain. Pain is the body's message to the mind that something is wrong. So it's hard to pretend that I can't feel you stuff yourself inside me. It takes years of skill. But I've been practicing since the beginning. I pretend at school, too. We talk about boys and imagine they've just invited us to the ball, like we're real princesses just waiting for a prince to sweep us off our feet. And with Coach Harry, too, at tennis practice: I always ask him for Band-Aids for the burns on my knees, Claiming I took another fall. I pretend with Dr. Henry, too. I pretend it's opposite day whenever I see him and his notebook of scribbles: I tell him I'm happy, I'm eating well; the family is great, that nobody's touched me, that Daddy is kind, and that I have no fears. Dr. Henry is pretty bad at playing opposite day, so I keep the score to myself. We eat dinner as a family, and Mommy goes to bed early since she has to wake up at 5 in the morning. And then Sis goes to her room and gets ready for bed. I do too, but I don't fall asleep straight away, I lie awake and wait for you to come. I know you're coming soon, And so does the man in the moon that looks through my window. I keep one eye attending to the door, Hoping that maybe, just maybe you don't need me anymore. But my hope dissipates into brittle pieces Like flaming acrylic disintegrating into ash. The instant my auditory cortex notices the door creek; It launches the threat straight to my amygdala. My sympathetic nervous system ignites, sending a surge of fiery-hot energy to my extremities. My breath gets heavy and goose bumps blanket my body. My heart starts racing and my legs twitch as fast as the twinkling stars in the sky. I know what's coming next, so my body tells me to scream. But I fight the instinct because I don't want Daddy to get mean. I watch you inch past the doorway with the roll of adhesive dangling like a bracelet on your wrist. We've done this too many times; you know me too well and expect that I'll yell; You can't risk me waking Big Sis. I hear the tape tear slowly, like my innocence you incrementally unthread from my body. I watch your hands guide it to my mouth. I suck in my lips so when you rip it off it won't hurt as bad. I close my eyes and start to pretend That you hadn't just created a story where the princess can't live happily ever after in the end. _ Please forgive me, little Sis. I really thought he just did it to me Or that Mommy was right; it was just a bad dream, even the screams. But one night he never came in, and I got up to see him skulk into your room. I saw his hands around your neck, your mouth clapped shut with the tape he used to use when I was bad, and your body thrashing into the sheets. That night I knew it wasn't just me and my dreams. And I wasn't his only favorite little girl. You were too. It suddenly all made sense… …the bug bites on your neck…. …the rug burns… .…your wobbly walk…. …your peeling lips… …the thick slices around your wrists… Your body looked like mine from when I used to resist. Those nights he didn't come in I told myself he was over it; that the nightmares were over; he'd had enough. But he hadn't. And I should have listened to Mommy when she said “dreams are too good to be true.” Because I could have saved you. I knew it was Daddy when I felt his studded wedding ring go inside me And when he made a mess and shuffled anxiously to my closet for that stained, crinkled dress. I just didn't know he went to your room next. I'm so sorry that I was too afraid to confess. You don't have to pretend anymore. You don't have to hide anymore. You're safe. We will write our own fairy tale ending― one where the bad guy doesn't win.