Lily visits Bellmere now.
Not every weekend.
Not every holiday.
She has her own apartment.
Her own friends.
Her garden.
Her yellow mug.
I no longer expect her to become the sister buried in that closed casket ten years ago.
And she no longer expects me to pretend those ten years did not happen.
There is still a grave with Lily Bennett’s name on it.
Our parents have not removed the stone.
Not yet.
The first time Lily saw it, she stood in front of her own name for almost twenty minutes.
Then she whispered:
“She really is dead.”
I understood.
The Lily who disappeared at twenty was.
So was the Claire who lost her.
We both survived in different ways.
One through a crash.
One through grief.
Neither of us came out unchanged.
And maybe that was the mistake everyone made about reunion.
They thought finding Lily meant returning her.
