My father barely glanced up from his newspaper when Ben entered.
But Rosie waited by the window for the sound of his tires.
By seventeen, I had begun imagining a future with Ben.
I never said it aloud.
They were only quiet fantasies while I finished homework or brushed my hair before bed: Ben, Rosie, and me, our lives forever connected.
I believed he imagined it too.
Because of the way he lingered on our porch.
Because he laughed at Rosie’s jokes that usually only I understood.
Then one Sunday, when I was twenty-two, Ben knocked on our door.
A small velvet box rested in his palm.
My heart rose so quickly I nearly felt dizzy.
“Can I talk to Rosie?” he asked me.
I stared at him. “Rosie?”
Without answering, I stepped aside.
From the kitchen window, I watched him kneel in front of my sister between the tomato plants.
I saw her hands fly to her mouth.
I watched her nod so hard that her curls bounced.
That night, I cried into my pillow so no one would hear.
Terrible thoughts raced through my mind, thoughts that made me ashamed of myself.
Ben could not possibly find her more attractive than me.
He had to have another reason for marrying her.
Looking back, it hurts to know how close I came to the truth.
