Nora was the oldest by seven minutes, and somehow she acted as if those seven minutes made her responsible for the entire universe. She reminded us of it all the time too.
« I’m older, » she would say, lifting her chin like she had been crowned queen of the nursery. « That means I decide. »
Leila hated that.
« Seven minutes doesn’t count, » she would snap.
« It does if you were late, » Nora would reply, grinning.
I usually laughed first. Leila usually threw a pillow.
That was how most of our childhood sounded before everything changed. Laughter. Arguing. Someone running down the hallway.
Mom yelling that if one more crayon ended up on the wall, she was going to lose her mind. Dad, back when he was still around more often than not, pretending to be stern while secretly smiling into his coffee.
Nora was the one who stood between us when Leila and I fought over toys, over clothes, over who got the window seat, and over stupid things children fight about because they don’t understand yet how much they’ll miss the noise one day.
« She had it yesterday, » Leila would protest.
