“She had it yesterday,” Leila would complain.
“And you can have it tomorrow,” Nora would answer calmly. “Today it’s Gia’s turn.”
“You always take her side.”
“No,” Nora would insist. “I take the side of peace.”
Then she would make a ridiculous face until we both burst out laughing.
That was Nora.
She carried sunshine wherever she went.
She tied our shoelaces when we were running late. She secretly saved Leila’s favorite candies. During thunderstorms, she always slept between us because she believed it was her job to protect both sides.
One stormy night, thunder rattled the windows so hard the entire house shook.
Leila climbed into Nora’s bed first.
I followed shortly afterward.
Without opening her eyes, Nora lifted the blanket.
“You two are terrible at pretending to be brave,” she mumbled.
Leila curled against one side.
I settled against the other.
“You’re scared too,” I whispered.
“No,” Nora answered sleepily. “I’m responsible.”
She was only a child.
Yet somehow she spent her life taking care of everyone else.
Then everything changed.
At first, adults whispered in corners.
They thought lowering their voices could hide the truth.
But Nora always understood more than people realized.
Her first hospital stay felt unreal.
The sharp smell of disinfectant.
Bright lights that never seemed to turn off.
Colorful cartoon stickers trying and failing to make the room feel cheerful.
Leila kept tugging nervously at her sweater sleeve.
“What’s wrong with Nora?” she asked.
Mom forced a smile.
“She’s just tired.”
Nora rolled her eyes.
“I’m not a baby, Mom.”
For a moment, everyone laughed.
But even then, something felt different.
Nora looked smaller inside that hospital bed.
Her wrists seemed too thin.
Her smile seemed harder to hold.
Still, she worried more about us than herself.
