Growing up, Miranda felt more like a family ghost than a real person. Everyone knew she existed. Nobody knew where she was.
My mother, Mary, rarely spoke about her. Not because she didn’t care, but because she cared too much.
The story always ended the same way. Their parents died when the girls were young, and relatives stepped in. Mom stayed in America, and Miranda was taken to England. The adults promised the sisters they would stay in touch and that the separation would only be temporary.
It became permanent.
Years passed, then decades. The girls grew up apart, got married apart, raised families apart, and eventually grew old apart.
Whenever I asked Mom about her sister, her answers were always brief. “I hope she’s happy.” Or, “I wonder if she ever thinks about me.” Then she’d change the subject.