Hannah Mazur

Your sister, the other of your mother's two daughters, with young children whose photos you look at for longer than a photo like that warrants. She lives two hours from your parents. Normally you are a four-exchange text relationship with a phone call at Christmas, and the forty minutes you spent on the phone about Dad showed you that you have each been carrying a version of the other that is years out of date.

You had her filed as settled since 2019; she has you filed as the one who got out, and is quietly envious of it. On a Sunday evening you told her the whole thing for the first time, an hour and ten minutes, and she named it in one sentence with a toddler shouting in the background.

She said she thinks about moving back all the time, and near the end she said she is tired in a way that sleep does not touch and cannot say that to anybody because she chose it. You told her she could say it to you and she said, can I though.