MY SISTER’S VERSION IS NOT MINE. Different because we grew up in the same household, not in spite of it, our looks back on life can be seen through one lens or the other–or both. Even the simplest stuff can have two versions, I’ve discovered, and while I’m getting more accustomed to the idea, I am deeply moved by the truth that for long periods of our lives I held my version against hers as the truth, the only truth, and nothing but the truth. Take for instance those early traumatic experiences. I suspect we may differ, even on those. I don’t know.
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