Cassandra and I had a complicated relationship from childhood. She was undeniably beautiful, with the kind of effortless charm that drew people to her. But there was always an undercurrent of competition from her side. If I achieved something, she needed to one-up me. When I started dating Adam, she suddenly became interested in law students. When we bought our house, she complained for months about her apartment, fishing for our parents to help her upgrade. It was exhausting, but Adam encouraged me to maintain the relationship.

“She is your only sister,” he would remind me. “Family is important.”

Two years ago, Cassandra started dating Tyler, a bartender she met while out with friends. He was handsome in a rugged way, with tattoos covering his arms and a motorcycle our parents disapproved of. Their relationship seemed volatile from the outside—dramatic breakups and passionate reconciliations.

Then came the pregnancy announcement at Thanksgiving the year before Adam died. It was unexpected, to say the least. Cassandra had never expressed interest in having children. In fact, she had frequently commented on how my desire for children was giving in to societal expectations. Yet there she was, announcing her pregnancy with theatrical tears and declarations about the miracle of life. I felt the familiar sting of jealousy. After all our struggles, all our heartbreak, Cassandra had accidentally achieved what we had desperately wanted. But I pushed those feelings down. I was genuinely happy for her. And I was determined to be the best aunt possible to her child.