But do not meet her until the quilt is whole, and she is old enough to understand the weight of a secret.'” Tears finally spilled over my cheeks as I walked over to the table and sank into the metal chair across from her.

I reached out, my fingers trembling as I touched the yellowed letters and the worn wicker basket.

For twenty-four years, I thought I was mourning a loss in isolation. In reality, I had been wrapped in a lifelong conversation of sisterly love, survival, and a bond that even a family’s cruelty couldn’t tear apart. Clara reached across the table, her hand engulfing mine.

Her skin was warm, calloused, and lined with the exact same patterns as my mother’s. “The quilt is finished, my dear,” Clara whispered softly, squeezing my fingers. “And now, we have a lot of catching up to do.”