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brIGID STEPS OUT OF her new SUV and onto the driveway as I carry my bag out from the house. Within seconds, we’re both crying. The last time we consistently did this much crying together was when boys started breaking up with us in high school. Me more than her.

Both of us are frankly tired of days like this when one of us is on our way back to Switzerland, once again in search of a magic bullet.

By the way? Our mother died of cancer. We had no way of knowing that cancer would turn out to be the closest we ever came to a family business.

I’ve always thought of my sister as the pretty one, and the smart one, too, especially when she got into Duke and I didn’t. But now that her cancer is in remission, I also think of her as the lucky one.

In her case, it doesn’t include lucky in love.

Her husband, Chris, has finally started divorce proceedings.

They separated after Brigid testified under oath at Rob Jacobson’s first trial that she’d had an affair with Jacobson, once her classmate at Duke.

They briefly tried to reconcile, but Chris couldn’t get past what had happened.

I can’t say that I blame him, now knowing my client as well as I do.

On the way to JFK, I ask her about him again.

“For the last time, Rob is back to being a friend without benefits,” Brigid says evenly. “Which means that going forward, he remains your problem, not mine.”

She smiles, eyes focused on the road, though her expression looks smug.

“Big picture?” she says. “The one who seems incapable of quitting him is you.”

Brigid stops the car and steps out onto the sidewalk as I get my bag out of the back.

“I love you so much,” Brigid says.

“Trust me on this,” I tell her. “I love you more.”

She smiles through her tears. “You need to rethink not taking Ben’s ring,” she says.

I say, “But this girl reserves the right to change her mind if she gets some good news from Dr. Stone Face over there in Switzerland.”

It’s our mutual nickname for Dr. Ludwig, the German who runs the Meier Clinic, one who in comparison makes all other stoic Germans look like the life of the party.

“In German,” Brigid says, “it would be Dr. Steingesicht. But I wouldn’t call him that to his face.”

“See,” I say, “you’re still the smart one.”

Her eyes suddenly fill up again and her face turns bright red, the way it used to when she was upset as a little girl.

“You’ve always been my hero,” Brigid says.

“And you need to set the bar a lot higher than me.” I hug her again, tell her one more time that I love her, and then walk into the terminal.

Wishing, not for the first time but especially at times like this, that they called it something else.