ret’s face and it also wasn’t; it was the face that she
shared with her sister.
Sammy was standing beside a man with
dark, curly hair, and was holding a baby. The man
was balancing a young girl on his hip. The girl clung
to her father’s neck, laughing. She had Sammy’s—
and Margaret’s—smile.
After several long seconds, Margaret’s eyes
flicked down to the bottom of the card, which
wished her happy holidays and love from Nick, Sa-
mantha, Lucy, and Nate. Her sister was married? And
had kids? Reflecting upon it, Margaret supposed she
shouldn’t have been surprised. All of her friends had
moved on with their lives, gone on to better things.
Everyone but her.
Just like that, her lingering shock evaporat-
ed. The bottom of the card crumpled where she held
it, and Margaret threw it down in frustration, pacing
to the window and pulling on her short, downy hair.
The window had a tendency to stick, but Margaret
had been living here for a long time. She yanked it
open, smoothly, viciously, and inhaled the stinging
air.
It wasn’t enough.
She threw on her boots and coat and rushed
down the hall, desperate to get outside. She ignored
the nervous creaking of the lobby door as she barged
through, bursting out onto the sidewalk.
In the pockets of her coat, Margaret’s fingers
curled into fists. She didn’t notice the people who
gave a wide berth to the scowling, disheveled wom-
an; she was too angry for that. Had Sammy sent the
card to gloat? Or was she trying to be a good sister,
after seventeen years of radio silence? Who aban-
dons their twin and then, seventeen years later,
sends a Christmas card to make up for it?
She cursed out loud and came to a stop, ig-
noring the stares of passing pedestrians. Clouds of
frost billowed from her mouth. No matter how much
she tried to tamp them down, she couldn’t stop the
tide of memories that washed over her, making her
feel like she was burning up from the inside.
Meg was nineteen years old, and had just
come out to her family. Her dad was blustering, her
mom was speechless, and Sammy looked at her like
she was a stranger.
“No daughter of mine is gay,” her father said
firmly.
“I’m not gay, I’m bisexual,” Meg snapped.
She stomped her foot childishly.
“Margaret, can you please drop this? It’s get-
ting late,” her mother pleaded.
“No, I can’t,” Meg said, and strode out of her
parents’ house. She slammed the front door shut
behind her and bounded down the driveway, duck-
ing into her secondhand Volvo. As it rumbled to life,
the front door of her parents’ house flew open again.
“Margaret Wells, get back here!” her dad
called. His face was flushed and scowling. At his el-
bow, her mother was frowning up at him, likely warn-
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