Then the older sister said:
“I still remember thinking you hated me.”
The younger stopped.
“When?”
“When I told Mom you needed consequences.”
The younger woman remembered.
Her sister had said it to protect the hidden phone.
At eight, she had not known.
She had looked up from under the table and thought the only person who sometimes helped her had changed sides.
“I did for about ten seconds.”
The older sister laughed softly.
“Fair.”
“Then Dad came in.”
“Yeah.”
Silence.
The older sister sat.
“I used to think calling him was the bravest thing I ever did.”
“It was.”
“No.”
The younger sister looked at her.
The older one continued.
“The brave part came after.”
“What?”
“Still loving Mom.”
The younger sister sat opposite.
Her sister stared toward the empty room.
“It would've been easier to hate her.”
“Probably.”
“I tried.”
“Didn’t work?”
“No.”
The younger sister smiled.
“You never were good at simple emotions.”
“Neither are you.”
They laughed.
Then the older sister asked:
“Do you forgive her?”
The younger sister thought.
She had been asked that by therapists.
Journalists once, before the family stopped cooperating with any media.
Friends.
Partners.
Herself.
Her answer changed with age.
“I don't know.”
Her sister smiled.
“Good answer.”
The younger continued.
“I don't feel like I’m waiting for an apology anymore.”
“That sounds like something.”
“Maybe.”
“Do you hate her?”
“No.”
“Do you want her here?”
“No.”
“Also something.”
They sat.
The older sister looked toward the table.
“Dad would be happy.”
“He'd complain about the scratches.”
“Then try to fix them.”
“And ruin it.”
“Definitely.”
They laughed again.
On the wall was a photograph.
Their father between them at the older sister’s wedding.
Another of the younger sister at graduation.
Another of the late mother with the younger girl as a baby.
Not hidden.
Not treated as competition.
The older sister looked at it.
“You know something weird?”
“What?”
“I never met your mom, but I feel like I know her.”
“How?”
“Dad.”
“Photos.”
“You.”
The younger smiled.
“She would've liked you.”
“How do you know?”
“She liked difficult people.”
The older sister threw a napkin at her.
It landed on the floor.
They stared.
Then both laughed harder than the joke deserved.
The younger sister bent to pick it up.
For one second she was close to the floor beneath the table.
She looked into the space.
Years ago, that darkness had felt enormous.
Now it was just wood.
Chair legs.
A dropped napkin.
Nothing more.
She stood.
Put the napkin on the table.
The older sister asked:
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The younger sister touched the edge of the round tabletop.
Then said:
“Everybody gets a chair.”
Her sister smiled.
“Everybody gets a chair.”
They turned off the dining-room lights.
Walked upstairs.
And left the space beneath the table empty.