Nora had always been the center of our small world, even though she was only seven minutes older than me and Leila. She acted like those seven minutes gave her authority over everything—choosing sides in our arguments, deciding who got the better slice of cake, and declaring herself the “official peacemaker” whenever we fought. We used to roll our eyes at her, but she always somehow made things better, tying shoelaces, saving candies, and sleeping between us during storms as if it was her duty to keep the world from splitting apart.

When Nora got sick, the house changed in ways we didn’t yet understand. At first, it was just hospital visits and tired smiles, the adults whispering like lowering their voices could soften reality. But the truth settled in anyway, heavy and unavoidable. I remember her lying in that hospital bed, still teasing us even as she grew smaller in front of our eyes, still trying to make us laugh while Leila cried and I pretended that holding onto the bedrail could somehow hold everything together.