Her slippers remained untouched in the hallway.
Her toothbrush stayed beside ours.
Her empty bed became the first thing I saw every morning and the last thing I saw every night.
Birthdays became especially painful.
There were still cakes.
Still candles.
Still decorations.
But there was always one chair missing.
Every year, Leila and I silently counted three places even though only two of us remained.
As the years passed, grief changed us.
Leila became distant and sharp.
I became quiet.
Pain didn’t bring us closer.
It pushed us apart.
By the time we turned twenty-one, we barely knew how to talk to each other anymore.
That morning, Mom invited us home for breakfast.
The dining room was decorated with balloons and streamers.
A small birthday cake sat nearby.
And there, at the table, were three place settings.
Neither Leila nor I commented on it.
Then Mom entered carrying a small wooden box.
Immediately, something inside me tightened.
