“I’m not sure it’s normal to hate your sister for nearly three decades because of something she didn’t even do. Looking back now, I don’t really understand how I let it happen.”

Guilt nestled in the back of Jess’s throat.

“Because you’re human? Because we all make mistakes? Because dealing with grief is probably the hardest thing any of us ever has to do? You wouldn’t be the first person to cut yourself off from your family as a means of managing your pain, and I doubt very much you’ll be the last.”

Jess thought back to the night before Zoe died, lying in bed with her sister, reading aloud the poems of their childhood: “The King’s Breakfast,” “Binker,” “Us Two.” Jess’s belief as she snuggled up beside Zoe that soon her twin would be better, soon the two of them would be sharing their bunk beds again, soon Zoe would return to school where Jess had spent the last year feeling as though half of her was missing, not wanting to make new friends because somehow that would acknowledge the possibility that Zoe might not return.

“I just can’t believe they didn’t let me say goodbye. Why they didn’t let me tell her one last time that I loved her?” Her voice began to tear and she waited while it stitched itself back together. She thought about all those times she had recalled that final morning, filled with regret that she hadn’t insisted on seeing Zoe before she left for school. “Knowing I could have said goodbye but wasn’t given the chance . . . It feels like a whole new layer of grief. A whole new layer of anger.” Jess reached into her bag, pulled out a tissue, dragged it under her eyes and across her cheek.

“Of course that’s hard, Jess. Of course that’s going to hurt. But you and Zoe—you must have said a thousand times that you loved each other. She’ll have known what she meant to you. She’ll have known without you needing to tell her one last time.”

Ben’s voice was calm and gentle, and Jess wished she could bottle it up, breathe it in, make herself feel it inside, but every time she closed her eyes, there it was: an image of her parents and Lily discussing the fact that Zoe was never going to get better and choosing not to tell her.

“It’s not just that. It’s all of it. If only Mum had told me that Zoe was coming home to die, I’d never have suspected Lily and I’d never have cut her out of my life. All of this could have been avoided if Mum and Dad had told me the truth. And I’m not sure how I begin to forgive my mum for that.” Jess wound the damp tissue around her forefinger, watched the blood fill the flesh at her fingertip.

“I get that you’re angry and upset. But ask yourself this: can you honestly say that your mum wasn’t doing what she thought was for the best? When she decided not to tell you how ill Zoe was, wasn’t she only trying to protect you?”