By the third ring of the doorbell, I had to accept that I wasn’t fooling anyone by pretending not to be here. I swallowed another tiny sip of bourbon with a grimace, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand as I paced to the front door. At this rate, it would take me a week to finish the little bit I’d poured. The shit was disgusting.

“Becca, I know you’re in there, you rotting piece of trash. Open this goddamn door.” My sister’s shouts were accompanied by what I could only assume was her foot kicking the door.

I braced myself, unlocked the deadbolt, and swung the door open. “Isla,” I began, but paused when I took in her appearance. My sister, always perfectly put together and radiating warmth, stood in front of me dressed in all black with mascara-stained cheeks and brown curls that had lost their volume. The storm in her eyes promised destruction. “You look terrible,” I said.

“How dare you. How dare you,” Isla said, shoving past me to get into the house and slamming the door behind her. She took off the blazer that covered her dress and threw it at me. “I know you think the world revolves around you and you don’t need to look out for anyone but yourself, but this, Becca? This is a new low, even for you.”

I crumpled her blazer into a ball and let it drop to the floor. “That’s not fair–”

“Not fair!”

“Isla–”

“You missed our father’s fucking funeral. Don’t act like you know anything about what’s fair.”

“Glad you got that off your chest. Can you leave now?”

“How fucking entitled do you have to be to say that? Are you hearing yourself right now? What’s wrong with you?” High and mighty Isla, always acting like she’s better than everyone else. I was sick of it.

“I’m an adult who can make her own decisions, Isla. Today, I decided to leave the comfort of my apartment to drive to our parents’ house and spend the day here so our father’s ghost – which I know is already haunting the place – would know that I had absolutely nothing better to do today and still didn’t show up for his burial.”

I wasn’t sure what had compelled me to do it. When I got the news of his passing, I had told myself he wasn’t worth the drive, had told myself that under no circumstance would I leave my apartment the day of his funeral. When I woke up this morning, though, I was restless. I needed to do something. I started my car with the intention of going to the gym to burn off my energy, but before I knew it, I was on the highway heading south.

Stepping into my parents’ house had felt like stepping into a tomb. My skin had prickled, as if a thousand tiny spiders crawled up and down my body. It had never been this hauntingly silent. Even when my parents would have a fight and Isla would wrap her arms around my shaking body to keep me from crumbling, there was a crackling tension in the air. When I walked through the door today, there was nothing.

I stared at my sister for another moment, and then I opened the front door.

“Please just leave. Go take care of Mom. It’s about time you started.”

Isla took a step back, like the force of my words knocked her off balance. She brought a hand up to her chest.

“You don’t even realize how selfish you are, do you? You really think that you deserve to be on this – god, I don’t know – this pedestal. That sweet, innocent little Becca can do no wrong and it’s everyone else who’s the problem.”

If anyone was selfish, it was Isla. When our father had been offered a three-year position overseas, she encouraged him to accept. She didn’t care that our mom had been diagnosed with lung cancer a month prior. Didn’t care that she was away at college, and I’d be the one trying to keep Mom alive. Ignored all the nights I called her, sobbing and begging her to take my side and convince him to stay because Mom needed him.

“I’m not selfish, Isla. I’m just giving him a taste of his own medicine.” That man got to disappear while I watched Mom get sick from chemo and still pretend she was fine because she didn’t want her daughter to see how hard it was for her. So no, he doesn’t deserve my respect or attendance at his funeral. “I’m glad he’s gone.”

Mom went into remission after six months of chemo, but the cancer came back a year later. It took four more months, but she beat it a second time. She’s been cancer-free for three years now, but we wouldn’t be in the clear until five years had passed. I would never forget the images of her lying on our couch, looking like a living corpse. The sound of her muffled sobs when she called our father, telling him how much she wished he was there when she thought I couldn’t hear. Even in her worst moments, though, she tried to take care of me. She couldn’t shut off her instincts as a mother, and she didn’t have the assurance of a husband who could take on that burden for her. I would never forgive him for that. Not even in death.

“Shut the door on your way out,” I said, turning my back to her and walking down the hall into the living room. I heard the door slam, but the angry clanking of high heels followed me. Isla’s voice filled the distance between us.

“Our dad just died. He’s never coming back, but you’re playing the victim? Grow the fuck up. You should be ashamed of yourself. Mom needed–” Isla came to a stop next to me. “What the hell did you do?” She clapped a hand over her mouth and scanned the room.

Picture frames laid scattered around the floor, their shattered pieces covering the Persian rug in the center of the room. The shards gleamed from the overhead light shining down on them. Pictures I’d ripped out of photo albums were dispersed among the chaos, some intact and some ripped to shreds. It was weirdly beautiful. At the very least, it distracted from the blandness of the black leather couch, black entertainment center, and black coffee table. The rug had been Mom’s attempt to liven up the place.

“Becca,” Isla whispered. She slowly stepped forward, then knelt on the rug, picking up torn pieces of memories. “Why–” her voice cracked. I took a hesitant step closer, looking over her shoulder to see what she was looking at. She held a piece of a photo of her and our father at Isla’s graduation, both with wide and proud grins. He didn’t make it to mine. And Mom was too sick to go.

It wasn’t fair. None of it was. I crossed my arms.

“At least you have memories to hold on to. I don’t even have that.”

She turned to face me, tears streaming down her face and smearing her mascara even more. A part of me loved how broken she looked right now, with her body hunched over on the floor, hands shaking as they gripped what remained of the photo. Loved that she was finally experiencing the pain and sorrow I felt when she left me here all alone.

“Is that what this is? You’re jealous because I had a good relationship with Dad? A relationship you could have had if you weren’t so psychotic?”

“He left! Mom was dying and he left! This man,” I said, kneeling next to her on the carpet and picking up a picture of the four of us on Christmas day when Isla and I were little, “left his dying wife in the hands of his teenage daughter!”

I don’t remember much from my childhood, but I do remember that day. Our parents fought like all couples did, but they were happy the day that picture was taken. All of us were. Isla had gotten the pink rollerblades she’d been begging for. I got a Barbie dreamhouse with a slide that went from the bedroom to the pool. In the picture, our parents are kissing, me in Mom’s arms and Isla standing in front of them, our father’s hand on her shoulder. Growing up, I would look at that picture and think that I wanted a love like my parents had. Childish innocence at its finest.

I held the picture at the top with both hands.

“Don’t you dare,” Isla said, lurching forward to grab the photo.

I ripped. The halves fell in front of Isla’s knees.

“Let him go, Isla. He’s not worth it.”

“You’re so dense.” Isla leaned forward and kept her stare fixed on the torn photo. A black tear fell onto our father’s face. She wiped it away with her thumb. With a deep breath, she looked up to meet my eyes.

“You think he wanted to leave?” she said. “You think it didn’t tear him apart to leave Mom here? We needed the extra money. Especially with Mom’s medical bills. He didn’t leave out of anything but love. He did what he had to do.”

It was well-practiced, that speech. She’d made the exact same argument the night we found out about the job offer and every night after that when I begged her to see my side. I’d stopped calling her when our father got on the plane, stopped reaching out for anything. As far as I was concerned, she was just as much to blame as he was.

“He was a coward who fled the country when things got difficult. He didn’t want to deal with seeing Mom at her worst and was glad to have the excuse to leave. And you let him.”

“Becca. You really think either of us had any say in his decision? Mom told him to go. She knew we needed the money and that him leaving was best for everyone. I encouraged him to go so he wouldn’t feel guilty.” She sniffed and wiped her eyes, leaving black streaks on the tips of her fingers. “Of course, you wouldn’t know anything about being the bigger person and making sacrifices.”

My skin felt like it was on fire. A spark had begun burning since Isla pounded on the door, and every word out of her mouth fanned the flame. I didn’t understand why she was so quick to defend him and so quick to dismiss me. Dismiss the sacrifices I made.

“She didn’t want him to go! Obviously she wouldn’t beg him to stay. He should have known that staying was the right thing to do. He should have known, and he should have figured out a way to make it work.”

“Who’s the person who paid for our college tuition? He wouldn’t have been able to afford that and Mom’s medical bills if he didn’t leave.”

“Who’s the person who turned down NYU because she wanted to stay home with Mom in case her cancer came back? Who’s the person who took care of Mom and drove her to her treatment sessions while you were four hours away?”

I couldn’t keep having the same conversation that led nowhere. We were never going to see eye to eye on this.

“Forget it,” I continued. “You have your opinions and I have mine. I’m done here.” I reached my hands down to push myself up from the ground, but I didn’t see the shard of glass that had been lying dangerously close to my side. I hissed as I sliced my palm open, drops of blood mingling with the deep red of the rug. I squeezed my eyes shut and cradled my injured hand in my other palm.

Isla was up and by my side immediately, hauling me up from where I still knelt.

“Come on,” she said, holding onto my elbow and pushing me into the kitchen.

“What are you doing? Let me go, Isla.”

She shoved me in the general direction of the bar stools and commanded me to sit. Isla walked away, then came back with a small step stool that was apparently still kept in the laundry room. She stepped on and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until she found the first aid kit.

It was strange, seeing her like this. Seeing my big sister acting like my big sister. There was an authoritative air about her. She wiped stray strands of hair away from her face with her arm, then placed the kit on the marble counter in front of me.

“Give me your hand,” she ordered, though she had already grabbed it in her own and yanked it towards her.

“What are you doing?”

“You really need everything explained to you, don’t you?” She examined the cut, turning my hand left and right to get a better look.

“Isla. Stop.” I tried to pull my hand away. Her grip tightened and the storm in her eyes returned at full force.

“I can’t just watch you bleed out.”

If my eyes rolled any further, they’d pop right out of their sockets. “You’re so damn dramatic. I’m not going to bleed out from – fuck.” Isla hadn’t given me a warning before disinfecting the cut. The corner of her mouth tugged up, and I wanted to slap that smirk right off her face.

“Oops,” she said. “My bad. And you’re right, actually. You don’t even need stitches, so it’s highly unlikely you’ll bleed out. Whether that’s good or bad may be subjective.”

“You’re still free to leave, you know. I don’t need your help.”

“Actually, I think you need a lot of help.” She paused her work of disinfecting the wound to meet my eyes. “I can’t even begin to explain how furious I am at you. For not showing up today. For treating Dad like shit when he came back home. For making things uncomfortable for Mom.” She looked away. “For the pictures.”

I didn’t treat our father in any way other than what he deserved. I had been making arrangements to move out as soon as he got back. A week after he was back home, I was gone. I knew he would take care of Mom when he was back, but I couldn’t forgive him for the years he wasn’t there. I ignored his calls, his messages, his voicemails. If I wanted to see Mom, she came to my apartment, or we met up somewhere. She tried to convince me to forgive him every time I saw her, but I couldn’t do it. It was the one thing I couldn’t give her. I couldn’t forget the tears she wasted on him and the sleepless nights she had while I tried to find a way to make it all okay.

Isla finished cleaning the cut, then pulled out a butterfly bandage from the kit. “But,” she continued, “you’re my sister. I understand that you’re hurt. I even sort of understand why, though I think you’re being extremely unfair. So I’m not giving up on you yet.”

She placed the bandage on my cut, pressing the edges to make sure they were secure. She pulled gauze out of the first aid kit and began rolling it over the bandage. I focused on her movements. Not on the words she said, the words I didn’t want to hear. I didn’t want to be viewed as some feral animal deemed worthy of rehabilitation. She should just kill me and get it over with.

“What made you want to be a nurse?” I asked, trying to change the subject. Isla had been talking about becoming a lawyer since she was in middle school.

“Mom’s diagnosis. I still had time to change my major, and it just felt like the thing I needed to do.” She cut the gauze and secured it. “It was the only way I felt like I could do something that mattered.”

“Oh.” I paused. “You could have come home. Taken a year off.”

Isla’s pursed lips pulled into a tense smile. “Mom didn’t let me.” She gave my hand a pat and let it go. I pulled it back and crossed my arms.

“Mom didn’t want me staying at home either, Isla, but guess what? I did. Because it was the right thing to do.”

“I know you did, Bec. And I’m so grateful that you did. You’re right, okay? I didn’t have half as much pressure and responsibility as you did. You did a lot of heavy lifting. But so did Dad. You just won’t see it because you’re so wrapped up in your anger.”

“He wasn’t there. He wasn’t there and he should have been.”

“I agree. He should have been there. But he couldn’t be. He did what he had to do. And if you’re so insistent on being the better and bigger person, you should have come today. Mom needed you there.” She grabbed the first aid kit and returned it to the cabinet. With her head still faced away from me, she said, “I needed you there.”

With that, she walked back to the living room and left me sitting on the bar stool. I didn’t want to admit it, but she had a point. I talk big game about being the only one to take care of Mom, then abandon her on the day she needed me most. I knew she was staying the night at Aunt Denise’s, so I used that as an excuse to tell myself she was fine she didn’t need me. Maybe I was a hypocrite. Deep down, I just didn’t want to accept that she still loved her husband when he left her so easily. I didn’t want to accept that Mom and I, always on the same page, were divided on this.

And Isla. She’d never needed anything from me. I was the one who used to lean on her for support, not the other way around. She’d always acted so tough and sure of herself that I hadn’t considered the possibility of her needed a shoulder to lean on, too.

She was right. I should have been there. And I wasn’t.

I jumped down from the stool and trudged to the living room. Isla sat in the middle of the rug, placing the pictures and shreds in neat piles.

“Isla.” She didn’t look up. “Isla,” I tried again. “I – I’m sorry, okay? I should have been there for Mom. For – for you.” She paused her motions, then looked up. The hurt in her eyes threw a bucket of water on the flames that had been burning within me.

“I’m no better than him, am I?” My voice shook as the question left my lips.

“I can’t answer that for you. But I’ll be here for you when you figure out an answer.” Isla stood up from the floor and brushed a hand down her dress. “I think I’m gonna go. I’ve said all I had to say.

I couldn’t explain the panic creeping up my chest as Isla walked away.

“Wait.” She stopped, then turned to face me. “Do you want some bourbon?” I asked.

“What?”

I nodded my head towards the bottle of Old Fitzgerald sitting on the table. Our father had gotten it as motivation to reach his financial retirement goal. Then medical bills came along, and that bottle had sat in this house unopened for years. Isla’s eyes widened when she saw the open bottle.

“He’s not gonna drink it,” I said.

Isla glared at me.

“Do you want some?” I asked again.

“Becca.”

“What? I may be drinking it out of spite, but you can drink it as a salute to him or whatever. A way to remember him. Because, seriously, he’s not going to drink it. And it won’t do anyone any good just sitting here.”

She stared at the bottle for a long while, as if debating whether Dad’s ghost was going to jump out of it to chastise her. Finally, she walked to the table, brought the bottle to her lips, and took a swig. She coughed once, covering her mouth with a delicate hand.

“That’s horrible,” she said.

We laughed, strained but honest. I knew that this might be a momentary truce, both of us too drained to keep fighting, but I’d take it. And maybe one day we’d find our way back to each other, not on the road that drove us apart but on a path newly carved.