‘It’s not fair.’ Millie stands, hands on hips, bottom lip out, the way she did when she was 6.
‘You’re not going.’
Footsteps thunder up the stairs and I count the seconds before music thuds through the house. I rotate my shoulders, trying to dislodge the knots.
‘She’s growing up,’ My ultra observant husband says. ‘You’ve got to give her some freedom.’
I hesitate outside Millie’s door, hand poised to knock, but instead continue to my room. Yellowing newspapers spill from the box as I open the lid. Tears torrent as I reread the reports about the sister Millie will never know.
It’s not fair.