“I look forward to meeting her.”
Growing up, Sonya and I shared everything. That she has never met my husband is still difficult for me to believe. I sent her the wedding invitation, called her with the details, but she never showed. Leaving me without a maid of honor. Our oldest sister, Marin, stepped in as I knew she would. And did so without mentioning that she was second choice or that I had waited until minutes before I was set to walk down the aisle to ask her. Marin stood at the altar and later around the fire as I married Eric in two elaborate ceremonies symbolizing both our faiths.
“Mummy is clearly excited,” Marin says, coming in from the living room where she was helping Gia with algebra. Each sister uses her own name for our parents. I refer to them affectionately, Mama and Papa, while Marin has never lost use of the traditional Mummy and Daddy. For the life of me I can’t remember what Sonya calls them, maybe because I rarely heard her call out for them. “She’s been standing by the window for the last hour.”
Marin has wrapped her hair tightly into a bun. She stripped off her suit jacket when she arrived, leaving her in a silk shirt and tailored pants that emphasize her slim body, fit from hours of working and stress. She is older than I am by five years, but no one would ever guess we are sisters. Her golden-brown hair, kissed by the California sun, has streaks of blond that genetics fails to explain. Mom swears Marin’s deep-green eyes come from a distant great-aunt. Growing up, everyone assumed Sonya and I were the only biological sisters. There were times we were almost identical in looks. Not that Sonya would agree. She swore I was the pretty one. My looks were the reason my parents’ friends called me the princess of the house. The only explanation for the childhood I had.
“Shall I serve dinner?” Eloise pokes her head out of the kitchen. Raised in Mexico, she has no family to call her own in the States.
I glance at the slim gold watch peppered with diamonds that encircles my wrist. A gift from Eric to celebrate our fifth wedding anniversary. After his recent promotion to CEO of his company, what once were luxuries had suddenly become necessities. “Her flight should have arrived. Let’s wait another fifteen minutes.”
“If she decided to come. We don’t know for sure she is on the flight.” It is Marin’s way to be blunt, to say things as they are. Mama turns her face toward us, a fleeting look of pain before she masks it.
“I’m sure she’ll be here soon.” Mama’s voice lacks its normal strength. A pinched smile replaces the full one that graced her face earlier. She pulls her wool cardigan tight around her even though the sun is out and a warm breeze permeates the air. She stopped wearing saris after I got married. Said there was no need to keep up the traditions of the past. If Papa had a problem with the change in her attire, he never mentioned it in front of me. “She called me right before boarding.”
“That doesn’t mean she boarded.” Marin refuses to let the subject drop.
I catch Mama’s eye, offering her silent support without alienating my sister. We learned the steps of this dance years ago, my mother and I tiptoeing around Marin’s words. It was an unspoken agreement we made when Marin moved back to town. Never allow Marin’s way to break the fragile family we have left. Having already lost Sonya because of our past, my mother refused to lose another daughter.