His work boots stayed by the back door.
Sometimes, late at night, I heard a truck slow on the road and sat up in bed before remembering there was no one coming home.
My younger sister, Diane, was the only person who never stopped visiting.
She brought groceries.
She handled paperwork.
She spoke to insurance agents when I could not bear to hear the words “presumed deceased.”
One evening, six months after the accident, she walked into my bedroom and pulled the curtains open.
Sunlight flooded the room.
I covered my face.
“You can’t keep waiting for him,” she said softly.
“I’m not waiting.”
“You listen every time a truck turns onto the street.”
I looked at her.
“So do you.”
She turned away.
At the time, I thought she was grieving too.
Now I understood she had been hiding something.
Diane announced her engagement almost exactly one year after the accident.
She came to my house carrying pastries and a bottle of wine, smiling too brightly.
“I’m getting married.”
I stared at her.
“To whom?”
She laughed nervously.
“His name is Evan.”
“How long have you known him?”
“A while.”
“A while?”
“It happened quickly.”
She would not show me a photograph.
Every time I asked, she found an excuse.
He disliked social media.
He was shy.
He hated having his picture taken.
The ceremony would be small.
They planned to leave the state immediately afterward.
“You aren’t inviting me?” I asked.
Diane’s smile disappeared.
“I didn’t think you’d want to come.”
