Six years ago, I buried one of my newborn twins.
Last week, my daughter came home from school and asked me to pack lunch for her sister.
At first, I smiled.
Kids say strange things. They mix up names, invent stories, imagine friends that don’t exist. I thought it was one of those moments.
But Junie didn’t look like she was joking.
She stood in the doorway, backpack half open, eyes bright like something important had just happened.
“Mom, tomorrow you need to pack another lunchbox,” she said.
“For who?” I asked, still rinsing dishes.
“For my sister.”
Something inside me tightened.
