What made it worse was how casually she took from me.
I came home one afternoon and found her wearing my favorite sweater, the soft gray one I’d bought after a promotion, a small reward I’d justified to myself because I never bought myself anything. She wore it like it was hers.
“That’s my sweater,” I said, and my voice shook with a kind of shock that surprised even me.
She looked down at it, then back up at me. “Oh. I just grabbed it. It was in the closet.”
“It’s in my closet.”
“We’re sisters,” she said, shrugging. “I thought sharing was normal.”
It wasn’t just clothes. It was my skincare, the expensive face cream I used sparingly because it cost too much. I’d find the jar open, fingerprints in it. It was my meal-prepped lunches, carefully portioned containers I’d stacked in the fridge. I’d open the fridge in the morning and see one missing.
