I am standing in this quiet place. Solemnity surrounds me, shaped by carefully placed floral arrangements and polished wood. I am here, but what defines me is a million miles away, lost in poignant memory and regret. My eyes are closed; I’ve already seen what I needed to. He’s gone. There is nothing left for me to fear. “I am an island,” I tell myself. “Nothing can reach me here.”

I sense a subtle shift in the space around me, and know that someone has joined my silent vigil. Reluctantly, I allow the comforting numbness to slip away and open my eyes. She is not as I’d imagined. My sister, three years younger than me. I haven’t seen her in more than a decade. What I remember is a flushed and angry young face, tear-stained, reddened, and frantic. Dark blonde hair – what he referred to as “dishwater” with a distasteful smirk. We had been close, bonded through trauma. We’d shared our secret dreams, our deepest fears. She would sometimes creep into my warm, dry bed after she had wet her own. I didn’t mind, so long as she changed out of the wet clothes, although I could still smell the pungent odor of urine. I allowed her to snuggle against my warm back, and didn’t complain. I knew why she was seeking comfort. We shared a secret that we dared not speak, seldom to each other, and never to anyone else.

“You’re leaving me with him,” She’d hissed at me, cornflower blue eyes wide with incredulity. “You promised that we’d go together.” She was right. I had made that sacred promise. How could I explain to her, myself, a 17-year-old, that the opportunity, when it arrived in a thick envelope, was something that I could not turn down?

My grades had been erratic, reflective of our chaotic home life. Still, I applied for admission to my school of choice, with very little hope. My guidance counselor had encouraged me to apply to other, less competitive schools. I had no interest in any of them. I would make other choices once I received the inevitable rejection letter. I did not think about the broader meaning. Should I be accepted? It felt improbable. I dreamed anyway: UCLA. Sun. Sand. Thousands of miles from him, from what he was doing to us in the cover of night, whiskey breath, fumbling belt. Our mother fled from him shortly after giving birth to my sister. We no longer questioned why she left us behind. Tiny hostages.

I tried to explain. My SAT scores and a stellar referral from that counselor had swayed an admissions board. They offered a full scholarship. I could not bring her with me — 14, dependent. She could visit. I would get a job, find a way to bring her to me when I could. She did not understand and would not make it easy for me to leave. When I did go, slim suitcase in one hand and an apologetic letter extended to her in the other, she retreated to her room. She did not respond to my frequent calls and letters. She would not see me. Over time, I stopped trying. I graduated, married (sent her an ignored invitation to the wedding), and had a child.

This woman standing beside me bore my sister’s keenly blue eyes, but little else from my last recollection of her. She’d donned a pixie cut, colored her hair to a startling deep auburn. She wore a simple black dress, a gold cross dangling from a delicate chain. Sensible black leather pumps. She appeared polished. Calm and self-possessed. When those cerulean eyes met mine, I sensed no judgment. No anger. The glance of a stranger, with perhaps a touch of curiosity. My heart leapt to my throat.

“I’m sorry for leaving you,” I ached to say. “I was wrong, I was selfish, I paid a price. Forgive me. Please – oh please, understand. I need you to forgive me.” He lay in front of us, skin waxy and cheeks artificially flushed. Arms tastefully crossed. Dark suit. He appeared exactly as he had in my nightmares. Scattered silver hairs contrasted with dark cheeks forming jowls. Slight signs of aging. I wanted to open my mouth, to speak. Words would not come. There was instead a chasm between us, spanning more than a decade. All that I had felt – the trauma, the shame and guilt, the excitement muted by all of these things rushed back, and with it, the unanticipated mix of something new. Or perhaps, what I had simply not allowed myself to feel: anger. Yes, I was angry, too. I had tried. I’d reached out to her, begged her to listen. In the end, I had made a phone call to the authorities. Ultimately, she was removed from his care and sent to live with a foster family. She would not allow her location to be disclosed to me. I knew that a 14-year-old girl would not understand my self-preserving decision, but why hadn’t she reached out to me in all of those subsequent years?

Her gaze slid away. She said nothing. My husband approached, our young daughter enclosed in his arms. He smiled at her, inquisitive. Our resemblance was unmistakable. She turned to him, absorbing my baby’s tidewater gaze and dishwater blonde hair. She paused, but only for a moment. She did not look at me again; if she had, she would have seen the tears sliding down my face, lips locked, frozen. Instead, she walked deliberately away. I watched her stop right before the outside door, pick up a tow-headed boy, perhaps a year older than my girl. She exchanged a few short words with a blue-suited young man, and they were gone as quickly as she had appeared before me.

My words remain frozen, thoughts behind them fractured into a jumble of contradiction that will not untangle, not for this moment, and not for a long time after. I abandoned her first. It will be years before I realize that I can forgive myself and be comfortable with that. Wherever she is, I pray, she has also found peace.