Last night, after Phee had left, John took the twins upstairs so Amy and I could talk. In my heart, I knew John and I needed to talk, too. But my sister was here for only a short visit. And the sound of my husband putting our babies to bed, wild bursts of giggles, slippered feet running down the hall, lulled me into thinking any heavy discussions of our future could wait. In the end, Amy and I had stayed up to watch White Christmas until Amy fell asleep on the couch.

As I changed DJ, I caught myself humming the “Sisters” song.

When I returned to the yard, Amy and Daisy were stacking pinecones into Christmas trees. Well. Amy was stacking, and Daisy was scattering pinecones and laughing.

“Look at you getting all dirty,” I said affectionately.

Amy flashed me a quick smile. “It was this or mud pies.”

“I’m sorry the kids woke you so early.”

“It’s fine. I don’t get to spend enough time with them.” There were faint purple shadows under her eyes, smudges of jet lag or unhappiness.

“Is everything all right?” I asked. She bent to the pinecones, not meeting my eyes. “Amy?”

“Did you ever want something so much that you convinced yourself to see it when it wasn’t really there?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She shook her head. “It’s not my secret to tell. I don’t want to make things worse.” She balanced another pinecone on the stack. “There are other people involved.”

The tiny hairs on my arms prickled. “Do we need to have the talk about good and bad secrets?”

Amy looked up and saw my face. “No. Whatever you’re imagining, please stop.”

“All right. But if there’s ever anything you want to tell me . . .”

She grinned, wrinkling her nose at me. “Are we having a Momma Hen and Little Chick moment, like in the movie?”

I laughed. “I just want you to know I care.”

“You’re so sweet. I love you, too.”

A pickup truck edged to the curb in front of our house. Mom’s truck, with Jo at the wheel. The vehicle door slammed and Jo strode up the driveway.

“Oh my God,” Amy said. “What happened to your hair?”

Jo flushed. She met my gaze, her eyes filled with pride and embarrassment, satisfaction and regret. “I cut it.”

We could see that. Her thick, long, beautiful hair—our father’s hair—had been chopped to jaw level. Even shorter in the back.

“With what? Hoof trimmers?” Amy said.

“Sweetie, why?” I asked.

Jo shrugged. “It was always in my way. In the kitchen. In the barn. I got tired of messing with it.”

“But to cut it! Your beautiful hair. It’s . . .”

“Awful,” Amy said.

“It’s not awful,” I said loyally. “It’s . . .” Words failed me.

Jo gave a choked laugh. “It is pretty bad.”

“If you wanted a haircut, why didn’t you tell me? I could have made an appointment for you with my stylist.”