I cannot revisit every moment that may have been misjudged. I cannot change what’s done so that it never was done. And if I could, would I?
For her perhaps. She told me once how low she’d been. Sisters shouldn’t bear such burdens for each other. She said she’d even thought, at the worst of times, about not going on. Neither courage nor cowardice had stopped her. But pride. I loved that most about her.
I’d been young and nothing had seemed to matter. And I wanted him to love me, even if he was hers. Perhaps more because of that—some vindication for every time I’d been ‘little sister’ to her grown up ways.
So I seduced him, expertly, though it was a skill I’d never practised. It was in me, in my sex, to do it. And when he talked about regret I seduced him again. Three times until he told her everything. We spoke little for many months. But years have worn away the animosity. We’re sisters again. And me with failing kidneys now needing her like never before. And she, as if she’d pulled herself out of the mire of my betrayal just for me, now a lifline for my desires.
What might have been. So nearly the architect of a double tragedy tinged with justice.
small stories about love 