Laura hated them.
I preferred books, quiet afternoons, and knowing exactly what tomorrow would bring.
Laura wanted to climb trees, sneak out to the lake after dark, and talk to strangers at the grocery store as if they were old friends.
Our mother used to say that I was the anchor and Laura was the wind.
“You keep her grounded,” she would tell me.
Then she would look at Laura and smile.
“And you remind your sister that life is meant to be lived.”
Our father didn’t laugh at that as often as our mother did.
Dad was a serious man.
Not cruel.
Not cold.
At least, not in the way I understood those words when I was young.
He worked long hours at a manufacturing plant and believed deeply in responsibility, discipline, and reputation.
Everything had its place.
Shoes belonged by the door.
Dinner was at six.
Homework came before television.
And children, according to my father, were expected to respect the rules established by their parents.
Laura and Dad loved each other.
I know that now.
But they also collided constantly.
It was like watching two storms meet.
The older Laura became, the worse it got.
By fifteen, she had begun to push against every boundary.
She cut her hair shorter than Dad liked.
She listened to music he called “noise.”
She wanted to travel.
She wanted to leave our small town.
She wanted a life bigger than the one she saw around her.
And then she met Daniel.
That was when everything changed.
