Lena let out a wet laugh. “I remember. You smelled like strawberry shampoo.”
It wasn’t just the height. It was the gravity of the room. Lena now commanded the doorway. She ducked under the same chandelier Mira used to brush against. When they walked the dog, the neighbor, Mr. Hendricks, said, “My, my, the little one is the big one now.” Lena laughed it off. Mira stopped sleeping.
Three days passed in a cold war of polite breakfasts and averted eyes. Mira found herself avoiding the full-length mirror. She wore flats when Lena wore heels. She stopped standing next to her at family photos. The house felt smaller, and so did Mira’s sense of self.
The next morning, Mira handed Lena the emerald dress. “Wear it with the leather jacket,” she said. “You’ll look like a rock star.”