It was the night before our wedding anniversary and we were getting ready to go out. We’d turned in some Marriott points for a night in a hotel. I was fixing my face in the mirror when my sister Debra called. She was cheery, at ease. I had to cut her off after a few minutes. My hair was still wet; I wasn’t yet dressed. We had tickets to the theater.

“Happy anniversary,” Debra said.

“Talk to you tomorrow,” I sang out.

The next day, my sister was gone. Heart attack, they said.

I remember those early moments exactly. What came next, however, is less clear. I know I ate, slept, dressed myself. My mother and I pretended to be okay, if only for the sake of the other. In my head, however, I was in a void. I had never lived a day on this earth without my sister. I had no idea how to continue.

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