I went.
I wore the same hoodie.
My parents’ house looked exactly as it always had: curated landscaping, polished stone, warm exterior lights that suggested affection in the same way hotel lobbies suggest home. Ivy was already outside on the patio with a glass of white wine. No makeup team. No fiancé. No spotlight. Just my sister in jeans and a sweater, looking tired.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey.”
We sat.
For a while she said nothing.
Then, very softly, “I messed up.”
I kept my eyes on the herb garden lining the edge of the patio. My mother grew basil and rosemary there mostly for the optics. I doubted she had cooked with either in years.
“I know,” I said.
Ivy swallowed. “I’ve been thinking about everything.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
I turned to look at her.
She looked suddenly younger than twenty-nine. Not innocent. Just unarmored.
“I let Logan define you,” she said. “And I let Mom and Dad keep doing what they’ve always done. I thought if everyone was comfortable, things would go smoother.”
