My sister
My sister
My sister Anna and I were thick as thieves, though she was twelve years older. She was a rebel, in and out of trouble. I wore her hand-me-downs and aspired to be her, someday.
When I was twelve, my parents told me Anna's secret. She was my mother, not my sister, and they'd raised me because she'd had me way too young. It explained some of her difficulties, they said, some of her reckless behavior. It was time I knew the truth.
"Who's my father?" I asked, but they didn't know. They said she spoke about a demon who came to her room and impregnated her. They assumed she was trying to protect someone, some shitty teenage boyfriend.
That night, I gave Anna a hug and told her I knew, that it was okay, that I loved her. "I can't believe we aren't sisters," I said. "It's so weird that you aren't my sister."
Anna cried a little, and whispered, "We are sisters."
"No," I told her. "They told me the truth. They told me you had me when you were my age. It's okay. I love you. I forgive you."
"No," she repeated, and held me tighter. "We are sisters, too."
My heart leapt to my throat, knowing Anna had been my age, knowing a demon lay sleeping down the hall.