Sisters. Nancy Thompson Robards

carry my suitcase up the marble staircase. My footsteps echo, and despite its grandeur, the big house feels empty. Maybe I’m just tired. It’s been a long, emotional day.

      At the top of the stairs, I turn right down a long hallway and, as I head toward the second room on the left, I notice a grouping of large photographs hanging on the wall a few feet down.

      I stash my suitcase inside the bedroom Raul readied for me. It’s large and beautiful, with a king-size bed with a gossamer canopy. The space is decorated in white and gold—white carpet, white furniture, white fabric with gold accents scattered here and there. It looks like a page out of Architectural Digest. But I am drawn to the photos grouped down the hall. The first cluster is an arrangement of Ginny and Chester kissing; Ginny and Chester raising a toast to each other; Ginny and Chester wrapping their arms around each other.

      On the wall directly across from the Chester collection hang four photos—one each of Skye, Jane and me. And a fourth picture—the three of us with Ginny. It was taken in Tallahassee right after Skye’s third child, Cole, was born.

      Jane was young. Probably nine or ten because Nick and I were still married when I made that trip. Of course, he didn’t come with me. He was probably away on a photo shoot or came up with some other convenient excuse to stay away.

      I run my finger along the edge of the silver frame. It may be the only photo of the four of us together. We’re all smiling. If someone didn’t know better, they might think we looked…happy?

      I walk down the hall, opening doors and peering in until I come to Jane’s room. It looks as if Ginny left it untouched since the last time Jane walked out. Rock-and-roll posters on the walls, hot-pink carpet that must have been a special order, a fuzzy black duvet over a queen-size bed, little piles of clutter on every surface. I’m tempted to go in and sift through the remnants of my little sister’s life to see if I can find clues that point to why she’s chosen to live the way she has. Why she’d opt for a homeless shelter over a castle, but then images of the monster Ginny can be explode in my brain. I shut the door against the room’s aura of sadness and walk away.

      Still, Ginny seemed better with Jane than she was with us. Knowing what we lived with, how we lived, it was hard to watch Jane take everything Ginny gave her for granted. It was hard not to ask, “Do you know how good you have it?” After cutting ties with Ginny, Jane used to call Skye and me collect every once in a while. It was so hard talking to her and promising her we wouldn’t tell Ginny because we knew Ginny was heartbroken over how Jane turned out.

      Skye could afford to sneak Jane a few bucks here and there, but I wasn’t making much money. I could barely afford to make ends meet to support myself. More important, we were afraid Jane was using the money to buy drugs. We agreed the handouts had to stop unless there was some accountability.