“You look like mom.”

My sister calls me everyday. “Hey! How are you?” “Is everything okay?” “Are you doing alright?” “How’s life?””what are you up to today?” A million ways of saying “I’m worried about you...” I don’t understand it. She is the one who left. She is the one who walked away. She is the one who left me here. Did she think I had a choice? Did she think I could leave this house? Our home. The walls are filled with memories; laughter is in the staircase; tears are in the paintings. And our mother... She is in the safe, warm attic.