The evening passed without incident. John and I occupied Dad with card games and Frisbee on the lawn while my sister and mother cooked and did the dishes.
After everyone went to bed, I opened up a book and lay on the couch with a pillow and an extra blanket. The girls were still whispering on the porch with a flashlight. I heard Caroline and John brushing their teeth, taking turns spitting, sharing the sink.
She came down in her pajamas, the same kind she’s always had, pastel prints, always too big for her. She doesn’t like change. Neither of us do, like our parents.
She pulled two chairs from the living room over to the screen door that leads to the porch. Put her feet on one and sat on the other. She leaned back and closed her eyes.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Parenting.”
“They’re fine,” I say.
“Oh, you’re a parent now? You’re an expert?”
I sighed. That’s all, one exhalation.
“I’m sorry, am I interrupting your reading by being nearby? Does my very existence keep you from your deep presleep thoughts?”
“This is ridiculous. The girls are home, not out on the beach running wild. They’re fine. I’m right here.”
She laughs, a small quiet ripple that grows in intensity, until it’s almost infectious. I smile.
It’s been years, it seems, since I’ve heard my sister genuinely laugh.