Page 5

“I do,” she says quietly. “Because I’m your little sister. And little sisters always know.”

A tear spills down my cheek. “How did you get so wise, huh?”

“I watch a lot of TV,” she says with a giggle. “And I listen. Even when Mom and Dad think I’m not.”

I press the phone to my forehead and breathe out slowly. “Can we FaceTime? I really want to see you.”

There’s a pause and then a muffled, “Mom, give me the iPad!”

A few seconds later, the screen lights up with a FaceTime notification. I accept and the screen shifts from black to a familiar face—big brown eyes and a mess of golden-brown curls that fall around her cheeks in soft waves.

She’s wearing her favorite lavender hoodie, the one with a faded peace sign on the front and sleeves that are slightly toolong for her arms. She sits nestled in the deep purple cushions of her wheelchair, her small hands resting calmly on the tray in front of her, fingers curled slightly, and a smile bright enough to burn through the cold.

Some see Katie as anything but normal. They view her cerebral palsy as a handicap, a burden, but she’s anything but. Instead, she’s the brightest star in the room with a heart of gold—sharp as a tack, impossibly kind, and disarmingly funny in that way that sneaks up on you. She doesn’t need to walk to move people; with just a look or a few words, she reminds you what really matters.

“Hi,” she says shyly, giving a little wave with her bent wrist.

I bite down on a sob and wave back, my lips trembling with how much my heart misses her. Not for the first time, I question my decision not to go home over the holidays, to miss out on spending time with her. “Hi, Lady Katie.”

“Don’t cry,” she says, tilting her head. “Or I’ll cry too, and then we’ll both look ridiculous.”

I laugh, blinking through my tears. “You look beautiful. You always do.”

“So do you,” she whispers, eyes studying me. “Even though you look kind of tired.”

Sharp as a tack.

“Mom and Dad seem upset,” she adds, the lilt to her voice growing more prominent as she talks. “Is everything okay?”

I nod. “It will be. Seeing you helps a lot.”

She beams, her cheeks dimpling. “I wish you were here.”

“Me too. I’d do your hair, and we’d watch old movies and eat popcorn until you fall asleep on me like you always do.”

Katie laughs. “That only happened once.”

“Three times,” I correct.

“Okay,maybethree.”

We smile at each other for a second, just existing in the space between, and then she leans closer to the screen. “Are you really going to stay in Ann Arbor?”

“I think so.”

“And Damon . . . you still love him?”

My throat thickens again. “Yeah. I do.”

She nods like she understands something far bigger than most eleven-year-olds should. “Then I hope he remembers that.”

I blink fast, trying not to cry again. Trying not to think of how my actions might affect her. “I really love you, Katie.”

She presses her hand to the screen. “I love you more.”

“Not possible.”

She grins. “Totally is.”