The routine left little room for conversation, let alone reflection. But Anna’s quiet questions never ceased, her little voice cutting through the haze of exhaustion. “Why doesn’t she look like me?” she asked one evening, sitting cross-legged on the couch with her stuffed rabbit in her lap.
Her tone wasn’t accusing, just curious, but it made James pause. “She’s your sister, sweetheart,” James said gently, though the words felt hollow even as he spoke them. He crouched down beside her, brushing a stray curl from her face.