“And Vance?”
“At work. He’ll be home around six.”
Home.
My sister and her husband weren’t visiting.
They lived here.
They’d moved into my house while I was deployed.
“And my room?” I said.
My mother tipped her head slightly, the way she does when she’s about to explain something she thinks is obvious.
“Well, honey. Chloe needed the master suite. It has its own bathroom. When you’re pregnant, you have to use the bathroom constantly. You’ll understand someday.”
I stared at her.
“So where am I sleeping?”
My father answered for her.
“You’ve got options.”
He said it like it was generous.
“The basement’s dry. We put a cot down there. Or you can go back to the barracks on base. You’re an officer. You can get a room at the lodging. It’s not like you’re used to luxury.”
My mother came closer. She put her hand on my arm. Her voice went soft and reasonable.
“Katie. You’re single. You’re gone half the time. You don’t need all this space. Chloe and Vance are starting a family. They need stability. You understand that, don’t you?”
And then came the sentence.
The one I’d heard, in different words, my entire life.
“Be a good sister for once.”
I need to tell you about that sentence.
I was seven the first time I heard it. Chloe was four. She’d broken my science fair volcano, the one I’d been working on for two weeks, because she wanted to see what was inside. I cried. My mother told me to stop making such a fuss. “She’s little. Be a good sister.”
I was twelve when I got the lead in the school play, and Chloe cried because she didn’t get a part, so my parents didn’t come to opening night. They took her out for ice cream instead. “She’s having a hard time. Be a good sister.”
