Song is hanging on my arm, afraid I’m going to slip onto the bus and out of her life as quickly as I made the decision to go. I step back, allowing other passengers to board, trying to keep our good-bye upbeat, trying not to feel like the lousiest sister on the planet.
Those in line near us stare. We’re used to it. Song’s bald head and skinny body always produce curiosity and contorted, sympathetic expressions. We’re like a sappy Lifetime movie wherever we go.
Usually, I see faces of allies. Today I feel as if those faces are judging me.
“Please don’t hate...