We haven’t been watching for more than five minutes before Millie heaves a great sigh.

No, Millie, I think, panicked, don’t think about it. After a minute or two of silence, I get up the courage to pause the show and ask, ‘What are you thinking about?’ I hold my breath. I don’t think I want to hear her answer.

‘That Mom had the nerve to name me Millicent, and you got to be named Anderson,’ she huffs. I almost cry with relief.

‘Shut up,’ I respond, laughing. ‘That is the only good thing from Mom that I got. You got her ass.’ I twist my neck to glance at my behind, which is stubbornly small in comparison to my thighs, no matter the amount of glute bridges I force myself to do at the tiny gym in my apartment building.

‘And you got her hair.’ I press my hands to my scalp to try to tame the frizz. Millie and I both have curly brown hair, but she manages to keep hers sleek, and mine is an unruly, untameable ball.

I joke about it, but sometimes I think Millie’s inheritance of our mother’s best traits — her dark curly hair and strong nose — were the first indicators of my sister’s first-born personality. She unapologetically takes what she wants.

‘Don’t say what you always say,’ I warn Millie, as she opens her mouth to speak, her full lips forming an O shape.

‘But everyone says we look like twins!’ both of us repeat together, although I’m using a mocking tone and Millie is deadly serious. I’ve never told Millie, although I suspect she knows, that being told I look like her is the nicest compliment I get. I could do a lot worse than being a softer version of her, a version with frizzier hair, thicker thighs, less-defined cheekbones and lighter-coloured eyes.

We have this back-and-forth all the time, and only once it’s over do I realise that this week, it could have gone much differently. I feel a crushing wave of guilt that I just complained about my hair when Millie discovered a lump in her breast last Thursday. The lump, which Millie, true to form, nicknamed Sal, is the reason I suggested we cancel tonight, but here she is, inhaling a glass of Pinot Noir, insisting there’s nothing to worry about.

Millie waves her hand at me, mimicking pressing a button on a remote, impatient for us to continue watching the show.