Noelle squealed in delight. Holly reached over to pet Bismarck. “Does Daddy have a scrapbook?”

“We’ll ask your mom when she comes home.”

“He showed me pictures once. He liked to play basketball.”

She sounded so wistful I wanted to hug her, but I had to take things with Holly one inch at a time.

We progressed through photos of baby Wendy, hair so light it was almost invisible, then as a toddler in frilly dresses, in a ruffled bathing suit, on a merry-go-round with my mother on one side and my father the other. My parents looked so young and happy. Whoever had snapped the photo had tilted the camera, but it was still good enough to include here, even if it was less than perfect.

We graduated to school photos, slowly turning the pages to witness graduation ceremonies, starting in what looked like kindergarten.

There were birthday party photos, too. Wendy had been feted with extravagantly choreographed events. The girls and I paged through themes like Barbie Dolls on Parade and Cinderella at the Ball. There were always loads of kids and tables piled with gifts. During my own childhood, I’d nixed all the hoopla in favor of having one or two friends for a sleepover. I’m sure I was a disappointment to my mother, although in her favor, she never said so.

“Look at all your mom’s friends.” In addition to dance recitals, school concerts and plays in which Wendy had roles, there were also multiple pages of my sister goofing around with girls her age.

I hadn’t been born when the photos were taken, so none of the girls looked familiar. And if Wendy knew any of them as adults, I had never heard them mentioned.

“Who’s that one?” Holly pointed to one, a girl with curly dark hair and bangs that spiraled every which way. There were other photos of the same girl on the next pages, hair longer and in pigtails on top of her head, braces on her teeth, cheeks speckled with acne. We turned another page, and while Wendy had apparently never lived through an awkward stage, the dark-haired girl definitely had.

I wondered what kind of girl had been willing to spend her adolescence in Wendy’s shadow.

“Snow White and Rose Red,” I said.

“What’s that mean?”

I tried to remember particulars. “It’s a fairy tale about two sisters, one blond and one dark-haired, just like your mom and her friend.”

“And like Holly and me,” Noelle said.

“Exactly. In the story the girls protect and help a bear, and one day he turns into a handsome prince. After a whole lot happens, he marries the sister with the blond hair, and his brother marries the other.” There’d been a few terribly gruesome moments in the Grimm version, which I deleted from this version.

“Does that dark-haired girl have a real name?” Noelle asked.

I had no idea. I reached under the plastic and carefully unstuck one of the photos, but the back was blank. I was curious now. The girl seemed to be Wendy’s closest friend. I wondered if my sister was still in touch with her, or if they might even be together now, wherever Wendy was hiding.