At 5:06 a.m., my sister walked into the house I bo…

Then I heard the front door open. Not the careful, apologetic push my father used when his knees were bothering him and he didn’t want the deadbolt to clang. Not my mother’s soft shuffle in slippers when she woke up too early and came out for tea.

This was clean. Confident. A smooth turn of the handle and a push that said whoever was coming in didn’t ask themselves whether they were welcome.

I turned in my chair just as heels struck the hardwood. Christina walked into the kitchen dressed like dawn had risen specifically to light her. Camel coat.

Black tailored trousers. Cream blouse. Hair blown out into soft expensive waves.

Makeup perfect. Gold hoops gleaming under the pendant light. My younger sister had always understood the language of appearances better than she understood the language of consequences.