There were three of us once.
Me, Leila, and Nora.
I know that sounds like the start of a story someone tells after they have already made peace with the ending, but I never made peace with ours.
Not really.
I only learned how to speak around it without falling apart in public.
People always called Leila and me twins after Nora died, because it was easier for them. Easier than saying “the surviving two.” Easier than watching our mother’s face collapse every time someone asked where the third girl was.
But Leila and I never felt like twins.