When We Were Sisters Read Online Free PDF

gable and a ground level front porch that was probably tacked on as an afterthought.
    The house was built in the late 1800s, when bathrooms weren’t recreational and bedrooms were mostly for sleeping, but it was so filled with character, so settled, that after one look, Kris and I knew it belonged to us. We didn’t allow the developer to tear it down to build two houses on our one-acre lot, as he could have. We bought it exactly the way it was, multiple flaws and all, and slowly renovated it without destroying its character. Eventually we added a master suite upstairs, and a combination family room and sunroom below, along with a compact studio for me and a dark room, which gets very little use since digital photography came to stay.
    I’m not sure why the neighborhood children always found our house so appealing. But as Nik and Pet grew, we were usually the center of activity. We had no basement rec room, as all of them did, with built-in bars and home theaters. But the sunroom was open to our kitchen, and snacks and drinks were always in easy reach, along with games, both board and video, and pillows and blankets to make tunnels. And outside? Outside we’d splurged on climbing equipment and a wooden playhouse that could be a fort or a palace.
    I miss the comings and goings, the slamming of doors, the chatter, but today I was glad for the silence.
    I poured myself a glass of ice water, took two ibuprofen and went to join Cecilia outside. My head was pounding, but the nurse had warned me I might have headaches for the next few weeks. She had also warned me not to miss the appointments she would schedule for me, but she had agreed to let me leave the hospital. I don’t know what Cecilia said to her, but I won’t be shocked if my sister makes a surprise appearance at their next benefit.
    â€œIt’s so pretty out here.” Cecilia was staring at our glimpse of the distant Catoctin Mountain ridge. “And your garden is spectacular, as always.”
    As a young teenager I had helped our sunken-cheeked foster mother grow vegetables on a Florida ranch. Those memories include insects, snakes, hot sun beating on the back of my neck and bare arms, so I never expected to like gardening. But when I arrived at this house, I knew immediately that Kris and I would create garden rooms, defined by shrubs and perennial borders. I’ve made this garden happen, and yes, now it surrounds the house and often stops traffic.
    I lowered myself to the glider beside her. “I’m always a little relieved when winter heads this way. Then the only real gardening chore is leafing through seed catalogs.” I pointed to her glass. “Aren’t you hungry?”
    â€œYou don’t have to take care of me.”
    â€œGood, I’m not sure what’s in the fridge. I’ve only been gone two days, but Kris and the kids might have filled it with doughnuts and lunch meat.” Although, of course, that would mean that my husband had gathered himself to visit the grocery store, and I’m not sure he even remembers how to find it.
    â€œDo you know where the kids went after school?” Cecilia asked.
    â€œKris was hoping to find a neighbor who would watch them when they got home today. I gave him a couple of names.”
    â€œThey’ll be glad to see you’re out of the hospital.”
    I hoped it was true, but it seemed like a long time since my children had been glad to see me. “They’re growing up, CeCe. Mom is no longer the center of their lives. They’re breaking away big-time.”
    â€œThat’s natural.”
    â€œI’m not sure.” I sipped my water and considered. Cecilia knows I talk in spurts and it’s never easy.
    â€œThe thing is,” I said, putting the glass on the table in front of us, “it seems to be more about anger than breaking away. I have to be good guy and bad guy, helper and tormentor. I’m the one who tells them how