“Well, I don’t know, honey. I never would have gone to a foreign country by myself, I think you’re so brave. Is there some other way you can meet people your age? What about taking some cooking classes or, I don’t know . . . tango classes?” My mom has always been good at throwing herself into her hobbies, deciding she liked something and swiftly becoming an expert. Our garden had been the most beautiful in the neighborhood growing up, and when their now-ancient German shepherd, Barry, was young, she had trained him to be a search-and-rescue dog.

“Mom, tango?”

“I’m just trying to help.”

“I know you are, I’m sorry. It’s just hard,” I say after a beat. “I feel like I don’t know who I am anymore. And I keep thinking about Penny.”

“I know, sweetie. But you can’t let it define the rest of your life. And it won’t. I promise.”

“I know this sounds crazy, but I just want to call her sometimes. I still haven’t taken her number out of my phone.”

“It’s not crazy,” my mom says. “I feel that way sometimes too.”

I imagine it for a moment, calling the number. Someone might answer, but it would not be my sister.

“Mom.” My voice sounds small as I choke on the question, the one I’ve asked and she’s answered so many times it’s become a call and response, an incantation. My mom is made of steel; neither of us ever deserved her. “Did we do the right thing?”

“Yes, honey. We had no choice.”

The thing about tragedy is that it isn’t about just getting through it, it’s about getting on with your life when the dust has settled but the landscape is bombed out, smoke in the air, charred remains at your feet. On New Year’s Eve, I decide I will take myself to dinner in Belgrano, a neighborhood I haven’t explored yet. I even dress up a little, just a simple jersey dress and some earrings, but it’s something.

Growing up, I’d been peripherally aware that other girls put untold energy into hating their bodies. Even watching Penny and Emily—both a perfectly normal size—I’d become aware that “fat” was not simply a physical state but a state of mind, a feeling, a lens through which all teenage girls seemed to at least occasionally see themselves. Being an athlete and spending most of my time with boys had shielded me—my body had always been a machine to fine-tune and optimize—but that was all gone now. Looking in the long mirror affixed to the wall of my apartment, I feel a mild disgust. All of my abilities, all of my strength, this was my armor, and now I feel gelatinous and weak: permeable. The old me hides in the more abundant shell of the new one: of Liz Sullivan.