The hardest part wasn’t hiding them.
It was hiding the reason they existed.
Doctors had warned my parents that forcing Chloe to remember the house fire could destroy the fragile psychological barrier protecting her from those memories. So I stayed silent, allowing her to resent me because her anger seemed like a small price to pay if it meant she could live without reliving that nightmare every day.
I tightened my grip on the bikini before quietly answering, “Okay, Chloe. I’ll think about it.”
She rolled her eyes without even looking away from her reflection.
“Don’t think about it. Just do it. For once in your miserable life, try to be normal.”
I walked back to my bedroom, locked the door behind me, and stared at the small locked drawer inside my desk. Hidden beneath old notebooks was the only photograph that remained of our burned house, a reminder of the night that had changed both our lives forever. I stood there for several minutes, realizing that protecting my sister had slowly become the prison I lived inside.
