One was me at age seven.
The other was Anna at nine.
I remembered the day.
A summer picnic.
My father had introduced Anna as “a family friend.”
The memory rushed back.
Anna had shared her lemonade with me.
We built a ridiculous castle out of stones beside the river.
I stared at the photograph.
“We met.”
“Yes.”
“I remember you.”
Anna began crying.
“So do I.”
I reached across the table.
For the first time in my life, I held my sister’s hand.
Not because documents said we shared a father.
Because some strange piece of childhood suddenly clicked into place.
Anna was an urban planner.
Of course she was.
Our father’s obsession with buildings had apparently reached both daughters.
She had two sons.
A husband named Martin.
A dog named Pepper who apparently controlled the household.
She loved old maps, terrible mystery novels, and lemon cake.
