The invitation came in a stiff cream envelope, tucked into Winter's mailbox like it didn't belong. She had almost missed it between a catalog of poetry books and a bill from her cell provider. There was no return address, but she knew the handwriting. Her mother's cursive was precise—beautiful in a way that had once made Winter want to ruin every page it touched.
She opened it at the kitchen counter, Eleanor nearby, barefoot and distracted by a pot of coffee.
You're invited to a garden brunch. It's been too long. Your sister would love to see you. So would I. Please come. No pressure. – Mom
Eleanor glanced up at Winter's silence.
"Something wrong?"
Winter blinked. "It's from my mother."
That was all she said.
They hadn't talked much about her family. Eleanor knew Winter was estranged, but not why. Over the past year, she had learned to read the spaces Winter didn't want to fill. But now there was an invitation on the table, and silence didn't feel like enough anymore.
"I didn't know you still had contact," Eleanor said carefully.
"I don't," Winter replied. "Not really. This is… unexpected."
She didn't explain that her mother had once threatened to disown her if she continued pursuing art instead of law. Or that her older sister, Juliette, hadn't spoken to her since Winter had come out at nineteen. There was too much pain behind that envelope to explain in one conversation.
Eleanor watched her for a long moment, her fingers tightening around her mug. "Do you want to go?"
Winter didn't answer.
The brunch was held in her parents' backyard, the same place where Winter had broken her arm falling off a tree as a child, and where she'd later kissed her first girlfriend behind a hedge, heart thundering like a war drum.
The place was pristine. Too pristine. The hydrangeas had been clipped into submission. The patio glimmered with catered ease.
"Winter!" her mother exclaimed, arms open as though none of the last ten years had happened.
Winter stood frozen in the gravel path, dressed in black, hair pulled back in a defiant bun.
"Mom." She kept her voice flat.
Juliette came into view next—older now, polished in the way that made Winter feel like a fingerprint on glass. "You came," Juliette said softly, almost in disbelief.
Winter nodded stiffly. "I came for answers."
Eleanor had stayed behind, giving her space. But Winter had brought her in spirit. Every moment, she imagined what Eleanor would say, how she would squeeze her hand under the table, or whisper something sarcastic to break the tension.
The questions began quickly. Her mother asked about her job, her finances, her "plans." Her sister asked—too casually—whether she was still seeing that professor.
Winter narrowed her eyes. "Eleanor's name is Eleanor. And yes, I am. Not that it's any of your business."
Juliette's smile flickered. "It is when she cost you your degree."
"She didn't cost me anything. I made a choice."
Her mother's lips pressed into a line. "You always were good at choosing the wrong people."
Winter stood abruptly. "I'm not here to be judged."
"But you are being judged," Juliette said, gentler than expected. "Because we were hurt too, Winter. You cut us out. And now you show up acting like we're the ones who abandoned you."
Winter turned to her sister, stunned. "You did abandon me. You all did."
"No," her mother said, voice cracking. "We just didn't understand. And maybe we still don't."
That night, Winter returned to Eleanor's apartment, shaken.
She walked through the door without speaking, kicked off her boots, and went straight to the couch. Eleanor followed quietly, sensing the storm before it hit.
"I don't know why I went," Winter finally said. "I thought maybe I wanted closure. Or maybe I wanted them to say they were wrong."
"Did they?" Eleanor asked gently.
"No," Winter whispered. "But they looked older. Smaller. And I felt... like I'd grown past them."
She paused.
"They know about you."
Eleanor sat beside her. "And?"
"And they blamed you."
Eleanor was silent. She stared straight ahead, then said, "Do you blame me?"
Winter turned toward her, suddenly raw. "Never. If anything, you're the only person who hasn't let me down."
Eleanor touched her face. "They don't deserve you."
Winter didn't answer—but she leaned into Eleanor's touch, exhausted, unraveling.
Winter wasn't sure what compelled her to text Juliette. Maybe it was the way Eleanor had kissed her forehead last night—like she still believed there were pieces of Winter worth mending. Or maybe it was the way Juliette had said "we were hurt too"—not with malice, but something rawer.
She typed the message, erased it, retyped it, and stared at it until her coffee went cold.
Can we talk? Just the two of us?
The reply came an hour later.
Sure. There's a park near the old library. Noon tomorrow?
Winter arrived ten minutes early. The park was a quiet, almost-forgotten green space tucked between an art supply store and the public library they used to visit as children. She stood by a rusted bench, her hands buried in the pockets of her coat, watching joggers pass and the occasional dog walker.
When Juliette arrived, she looked exactly the same—pressed blazer, hair in a neat chignon, eyes that had always looked just a little too old for their age.
But her expression was soft.
"You still fidget when you're nervous," she said instead of hello.
Winter gave a dry smile. "You still talk like we've been in touch this whole time."
Juliette didn't rise to the bait. "Thanks for coming."
"I wasn't sure I would."
Juliette nodded, accepting that.
They sat, the quiet between them weighty but not entirely hostile.
"You meant what you said yesterday," Juliette began.
"I always mean what I say."
Juliette looked out toward the duck pond, her voice low. "It's weird, isn't it? How easy it is to remember the bad parts. The arguments. The slammed doors. I barely remember us playing in the treehouse anymore. Or the road trips."
"That's because the bad parts never stopped," Winter said. "They just got more polite."
Juliette flinched.
"I know I wasn't kind," she admitted. "When you came out, I—God, I was awful."
"You didn't just ignore me. You judged me. You made me feel like I was broken."
Juliette bit her lip. "I didn't understand you. And Mom—Mom made it seem like you were ruining your life."
"And you went along with it," Winter said, eyes hard.
"I did." Juliette looked down. "I believed her. She was always... so good at sounding right."
Winter didn't speak. A breeze stirred the leaves overhead. The world seemed to hold its breath.
"I'm trying now," Juliette said. "I know that doesn't undo anything. But I want you to know—I've started therapy. I've had to unlearn a lot of things."
Winter blinked. "Therapy?"
Juliette gave a short laugh. "Yeah. I know. Shocking. The perfect daughter with the house and the lawyer husband and the three-point plan for life... actually sees a therapist now."
Winter turned toward her. "Why?"
Juliette's answer came slowly. "Because I miss my sister. And because maybe I never deserved to be the one who kept her out of my life."
There it was.
No apology in the traditional sense. But something real. Something better.
"I'm with someone," Winter said. "You know that."
Juliette nodded. "Mom told me."
"She's not just some fling. She's... complicated. Brilliant. And she loves me."
Juliette hesitated, then met Winter's eyes. "Does she make you happy?"
Winter's voice dropped to a whisper. "Yes. Even when everything's falling apart around us."
Juliette nodded. "Then I'd like to meet her. If—if that's okay."
Winter stared at her, stunned.
"You sure about that?"
Juliette gave a small, sad smile. "I think I need to see what I missed out on while I was being righteous."
They didn't hug at the end of the meeting. But Juliette put her hand briefly over Winter's, and Winter didn't pull away. That was something.
When Winter got home, Eleanor looked up from grading papers spread across the coffee table.
"You okay?" she asked.
Winter sank onto the couch beside her. "I think I have a sister again."
Eleanor set her work aside, curling toward her. "You always did. She just got a little lost."
Winter rested her head on Eleanor's shoulder. "I know the feeling."