I would’ve spent the past fifteen years being shuttled back and forth between two parents. My relationship with Dad would probably have lessened over the years, and we would at least not have been as close as we were. Or are. I don’t know how to reference our relationship anymore. I’d be living a Floridian lifestyle with outdoor malls and flip-flops. I’d have completely different friends, maybe even a boyfriend. I wouldn’t even know the Gleasons existed, let alone the wonders of Wisconsin food: frozen custard, fried cheese curds, Friday night fish fries, and butter burgers. I’d be someone with different wants, needs, desires than I am now.

I’d be a completely altered person.

I guess the person I’d be most like is Sarah.

I decide to knock on her door. Paula didn’t talk to either of us on the drive home. Instead she turned the radio on loudly and sang along to the songs as we all ignored one another. Once we got inside the house, Sarah went straight upstairs and slammed her bedroom door shut, while Paula went outside to talk to Craig, who was doing some yard work. I’m sure she’s discussing what an ungrateful child I am.

That left me to hang up my new clothes and decide that enough was enough. It’s time my sister and I had a talk.

I knock, and Sarah doesn’t answer, but I can hear her stirring inside with her television on.

“Sarah?” I say to the door. “Can we talk? Please. I only need five minutes.”

I wait a few beats, feeling foolish standing outside her door, begging her to talk to me. It isn’t like I want to talk to her, either, but if I’m going to live here—and I am going to live here whether we both like it or not—we need to at least be civil. I don’t have anything against her. Hell, I don’t even know her. I do know she hates me.

The door opens, and Sarah is wearing her usual scowl. She holds up her phone, which despite her complaining looks exactly like mine. There’s a clock displayed on the screen, and it’s counting down from five minutes.

“Speak.”

“Can I come in?” I ask, wanting some privacy.

Sarah sighs as she steps away from the door and plops onto her bed. I take a few cautious steps inside her bright room, the complete opposite from her disposition. She has giant sunflowers painted on her wall. It takes me a second to recognize her in the numerous photos on her bookcase because she’s smiling. She looks much younger when she’s smiling. I have yet to experience that in person.

“Clock is ticking,” she states.

I sit down next to her on the bed, which instantly I know is a mistake. She shifts uncomfortably.