There Were Three of Us
There were three of us once.
Me, Leila, and Nora.
I know that sounds like the beginning of a story told by someone who has finally made peace with the ending. But I never truly made peace with ours.
Not really.
I simply learned how to talk around it without falling apart in public.
After Nora died, people started calling Leila and me twins because it was easier for them. Easier than saying “the surviving two.” Easier than watching our mother’s face crumble whenever someone asked where the third girl was.
But Leila and I never felt like twins.
We felt like two broken pieces of something that had once been whole.
Nora was older than us by seven minutes, and somehow she carried herself as if those seven minutes made her responsible for the entire world.
She reminded us constantly.
“I’m older,” she would say, lifting her chin like she had been crowned queen of the nursery. “That means I decide.”
Leila hated hearing that.
“Seven minutes doesn’t count,” she would snap.
“It does if you were late,” Nora would reply, grinning.
I usually laughed first.
Leila usually threw a pillow.
That was the soundtrack of our childhood before everything changed—laughter, arguments, running footsteps echoing down the hallway.
Mom shouting that if one more crayon ended up on the wall she was going to lose her mind.
Dad, back when he was home more often than not, pretending to be stern while secretly smiling into his coffee.
Whenever Leila and I fought over toys, clothes, the window seat, or any of the countless things children fight about before they understand how much they will one day miss the noise, Nora stepped between us.
“She had it yesterday,” Leila would protest.
“And you’ll have it tomorrow,” Nora would say, handing me the doll or sweater or whatever tiny treasure had started the battle. “Gia gets it today.”
“You always take her side.”
“I take the side of peace,” Nora would declare.
Then she would pull some ridiculous face, and somehow even Leila would laugh.
Nora was sunshine in human form.
She softened every room she entered.
She tied our shoelaces before school, saved the red candies for Leila because they were her favorite, and always slept in the middle during storms because she believed leaders protected both sides.
I still remember one thunderstorm when a crack of thunder shook the windows.
Leila climbed into bed first, dragging her stuffed rabbit behind her.
I followed a few minutes later, pretending not to be scared.
Without even opening her eyes, Nora lifted the blanket.
“Both of you are terrible at being brave,” she mumbled.
Leila curled against her left side.
I pressed against her right.
“You’re scared too,” I whispered.
“No,” Nora said. “I’m responsible.”
She should have been worrying about homework, messy hair, and whether Mom would let us stay up late on Fridays.
Instead, even then, she acted as though love meant standing guard.
When Everything Changed
Then Nora got sick.
At first, the adults whispered around us as if quiet voices could keep the truth from reaching us.
But Nora knew.
Of course she knew.
Nora always knew when someone was lying, especially when they were trying to do it kindly.
I remember her first hospital stay.
The smell of sanitizer.
The harsh lights.
The cartoon stickers on the walls that failed to make the room feel less frightening.
Leila couldn’t sit still. She kept picking at her sweater sleeve until Mom gently stopped her.
“Stop that, sweetheart.”
“What’s wrong with Nora?” Leila asked.
Mom looked toward the door as though an answer might walk through it and save her.
“She’s just very tired.”
Nora rolled her eyes from the hospital bed.
“I’m not a baby, Mom.”
Mom’s lips trembled.
Then Nora turned to us and smiled.
The smile was smaller than usual, but it was still hers.
“Don’t look like that,” she told us. “You both look weird when you’re worried.”
Leila burst into tears.
I didn’t.
Not then.
I stood frozen at the foot of the bed, gripping the metal rail so tightly that my hands hurt.
I thought that if I held on hard enough, nothing could move.
Not time.
Not sickness.
Not Nora.
She was only eleven years old.
Tiny beneath hospital blankets.
Her wrists were so thin that Mom cried whenever she thought we weren’t looking.
Yet somehow Nora understood more about leaving than any child ever should.
The Silence She Left Behind
When Nora died, the house forgot how to be loud.
No one ever said it aloud, but I felt it everywhere.
In the hallway where her slippers remained untouched for three weeks because Mom couldn’t move them.
In the bathroom where her toothbrush still stood beside ours.
In the bedroom we had shared, where Leila slept facing the wall while I stared at Nora’s empty bed until morning.
After Nora, birthdays became strange.
There were still balloons.
Still cake.
Still candles.
But there was always one chair missing.
Every year, Leila and I sat side by side, pretending not to notice the empty space where Nora should have been.
We blew out candles for two.
But silently, we counted three.
At twelve, I wished for Nora to come back.
At thirteen, I wished Mom would stop crying in the laundry room.
At fourteen, I wished Leila would talk to me the way she used to.
Losing Nora changed us.
People always said grief was supposed to bring families closer.
It didn’t.
It pushed us apart.
Leila became sharp.
Quick to speak.
Quicker to leave.
I became quiet.
Too quiet, according to Mom.
“You girls need each other,” she told us one night when we were sixteen.
Leila stared at her plate.
I stared at mine.
Neither of us answered.
The truth was that needing each other hurt.
Every time I looked at Leila, I saw the space where Nora should have been.
I think she saw the same thing when she looked at me.
Our Twenty-First Birthday
By the time our twenty-first birthday arrived, I thought I had learned how to live with that emptiness.
I was wrong.
That morning, I woke before my alarm and lay in the pale light of my apartment, listening to the city outside.
Twenty-one was supposed to feel exciting.
A milestone.
The beginning of real adulthood.
The kind of birthday people spent weeks planning.
Instead, it felt like stepping into a dark room where nobody had turned on the lights.
Mom had invited us home for breakfast before we celebrated with friends.
Leila arrived ten minutes after I did.
She wore a cream sweater and the guarded expression she had perfected over the years.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
“You too,” she replied.
We hugged.
Briefly.
Carefully.
As though both of us were afraid of leaning in too far.
Mom had decorated the dining room anyway.
Gold balloons floated near the window.
A small cake sat on the sideboard even though it wasn’t yet nine in the morning.
Three plates had been set on the table.
Whether from habit or heartbreak, I couldn’t tell anymore.
Leila noticed too.
Her eyes flicked toward the third place setting.
Then away.
Neither of us mentioned it.
The Box
Halfway through breakfast, Mom walked into the dining room carrying a small wooden box pressed against her chest.
She looked as though she had aged ten years overnight.
Leila frowned.
“Mom? What is that?”
Mom didn’t answer immediately.
Her eyes were already filling with tears.
Then she set the box between us.
It was simple.
Dark wood.
Its corners were worn from years of being handled.
A knot formed in my stomach before I understood why.
Resting on top was a yellowed envelope.
The handwriting made my breath catch instantly.
Even after ten years, I recognized it.
“OPEN ON OUR 21ST BIRTHDAY.”
My breath stopped.
Leila’s fork slipped from her hand.
It clattered against her plate.
“No,” she whispered.
Mom covered her mouth.
“She made this before she died,” Mom said, her voice breaking. “She knew the illness was taking her. One night, she asked me for a box. She said she wanted to give you both something when you turned 21.”
My vision blurred.
“She was so little,” Mom continued. “But she kept saying, ‘They’ll need me when they’re grown up too.’ I promised her I wouldn’t open it. I never looked inside. Not once.”
Leila reached beneath the table and took my hand.
For the first time in years, neither of us pulled away.
Her fingers were cold.
Mine trembled.
I held on tightly, remembering storms, thunder, and Nora lying between us saying she was responsible.
I stared at the box.
For a moment, it felt alive.
As though opening it might somehow bring Nora laughing through the doorway.
With shaking fingers, I lifted the lid and GASPED.
The Gifts
Inside were three small bundles tied with faded purple ribbon.
For a moment, none of us moved.
The bows were unmistakably Nora’s.
Crooked little knots she always tied herself because she refused to let Mom help.
One bundle had Leila’s name.
One had mine.
The last had both our names.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Leila leaned closer.
“She really made these?” she breathed.
Mom nodded.
“She worked on them for weeks. Some days, she was too tired to sit up, but she kept asking for paper, markers, photos, anything she could use.”
I picked up the bundle with my name.
The paper felt delicate beneath my fingertips.
“Open yours first,” Leila said softly.
“Are you sure?”
She nodded.
Her chin trembled.
Inside I found a friendship bracelet woven from blue and white thread, a photograph of the three of us at the beach, and a folded letter.
I opened it carefully.
“Dear Gia,
If you are reading this, you are 21 now. That sounds very old, but Mom says 21 is still young, so do not act like you know everything.”
A broken laugh escaped me.
Leila wiped away tears.
I continued.
“I hope you still draw flowers on everything. I hope you still sing when you think no one is listening. You always stop when people walk in, but you should not. Your voice is soft and pretty, even when you make up half the words.”
My throat tightened.
I had stopped singing after Nora died.
I hadn’t even realized when.
The silence had settled so gradually that I mistook it for growing up.
The letter continued.
“Gia, you feel things very deeply. Sometimes you pretend you do not, but I know you. You hide when you are hurt because you think it makes you easier to love. Please do not do that forever. People who love you should know where it hurts.”
I pressed the letter against my chest.
“She knew me,” I whispered.
Mom’s face crumpled.
“She loved you so much.”
Leila’s Letter
Leila opened her bundle next.
Her hands shook so badly that I reached over and steadied the ribbon.
This time she didn’t pull away.
Inside were a flattened red candy wrapper, a tiny plastic ring from one of our childhood games, and a letter.
She read silently for a moment.
Then she made a sound that shattered something inside me.
“What does it say?” I asked gently.
She swallowed.
Then she read aloud.
“Dear Leila,
You probably rolled your eyes when you saw this. I can see you doing it. You roll your eyes when you are sad because you do not want people to know.”
Leila covered her face.
Mom slowly lowered herself into a chair.
Leila kept reading.
“You are not mean. You are scared. There is a difference. Sometimes you yell because crying makes you feel weak, but you are not weak. You are the bravest person I know because you feel angry and sad and still keep standing.”
A tear landed on the paper.
For years, I had convinced myself that Leila’s sharpness meant she blamed me.
Maybe she thought the wrong sister had survived.
Maybe she hated being reminded of Nora.
But watching her read that letter, I finally saw the truth.
She had been drowning too.
I had simply never reached for her.
Leila looked at me.
Every wall she had built was gone.
“I missed her so much,” she admitted.
“I know,” I said.
“No, Gia.” Her voice cracked. “I missed you too.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
I walked around the table and wrapped my arms around her.
At first she froze.
Then she held on as though she feared I might disappear too.
Mom cried openly.
For a long time, none of us let go.
Nora’s Final Message
When we finally pulled apart, the last bundle remained.
Both our names were written across it.
“Together?” Leila asked.
“Together.”
Inside we found photographs, a folded paper crown, and one final envelope.
Across the front, Nora had written:
“READ THIS OUT LOUD. NO CHEATING.”
Leila laughed through tears.
“Still bossy.”
“She was older,” I said.
“By seven minutes,” Leila replied.
For the first time in years, the phrase didn’t hurt.
I opened the letter.
“Dear Gia and Leila,
If you are 21, that means you are grown-ups, which is weird because I still think of us as 11. Maybe you are wearing fancy shoes. Maybe you have jobs. Maybe one of you is married, which is disgusting but fine.”
Mom laughed through her tears.
I continued.
“I need you both to promise me something. Do not let me become the space between you. I am scared that when I go, you will look at each other and only remember I am missing. But you are not just the two who stayed.
You are Gia and Leila. You are my sisters. You were my favorite people before I got sick, and you will still be my favorite people after.”
Leila rested her forehead against my shoulder.
I kept reading.
“I know birthdays might be hard. I know there will be one chair missing. But I want you to eat cake. I want you to laugh. I want you to fight over stupid things sometimes and make up after, because I would give anything to hear you both argue again.”
My voice broke.
“So here is my rule: On every birthday from now on, save me one slice. Then tell each other one good thing that happened that year. Not sad things. Good things. I want to know you lived.”
The room blurred with tears.
Then I reached the final line.
“And look under the paper crown.”
The Tape
Leila lifted the crown.
Beneath it sat a tiny cassette tape and a sticky note.
Mom gasped.
“I forgot she had that recorder.”
Leila stared at the cassette.
“Do we even have something to play this on?”
Mom stood up immediately.
“Your father’s old stereo is in the den.”
We carried the tape as though it were glass.
Mom inserted it into the player.
Static crackled.
Then Nora’s voice filled the room.
Small.
Thin.
Alive.
“Hi, Gia. Hi, Leila. Hi, Mom. If this works, I am basically a genius.”
Leila grabbed my hand.
Nora continued.
“I wanted you to hear me say it. I am not mad that I have to go. I am sad, but I am not mad. I got to be your sister. That was the best thing.”
Mom covered her mouth.
“And I need to tell you a secret,” Nora said.
My heart stopped.
“I heard you two crying when you thought I was asleep. Gia, you asked God to take you instead. Leila, you said you wished you were the sick one because you thought you were stronger.”
Leila turned toward me in shock.
I could barely breathe.
Nora’s voice softened.
“You were both wrong. Nobody should have taken your place. You have to stay because you have lives to live. You have to stay for me.”
The tape clicked.
Then continued.
“So on our 21st birthday, do not just remember the day I am not there. Remember this too. I loved you first. I loved you last. And I am still your sister.”
The recording ended.
One Slice for Nora
No one spoke.
Then Leila wrapped her arms around me.
Mom wrapped herself around both of us.
That day, we cut three slices of cake.
One for Leila.
One for me.
One for Nora.
And for the first time since she died, the empty chair no longer felt like a wound.
It felt like a place saved for love.
Note: This story is a work of fiction inspired by real events. Names, characters, and details have been altered. Any resemblance is coincidental. The author and publisher disclaim accuracy, liability, and responsibility for interpretations or reliance. All images are for illustration purposes only.
Source: amomedia.com
