Green Beans

Green beans. That was what the argument was about.

The options were green peas or green beans. She had already confirmed the reception menu items of meat, bread and dessert. We had reviewed the dress, talked about the flowers, fretted over the length of her veil and the song to be played while she walked down the aisle. The only thing left to decide was the green beans. I was sure they would be preferable to peas, and she passionately disagreed. Our conversation had escalated to loud voices, and it appeared the debate had ended when Dad poked his head in the room and told us to be quiet. But we didn’t – we just inched closer in bed together and whispered. After all, this had to be decided tonight. She was already ten years old, and I was seven. We didn’t have that much time left.

So many boys would probably want to marry us. Giggle.

But we would only pick the perfect ones. Serious.

I would be her maid of honor, and she would be mine. Smile.

None of it happened like we planned. I want to get over it, but I feel like I’m letting down those girls. They only believed the best would happen to them. They were manipulative and loving, mean and loyal. They slept in the same bed when they had their own rooms. They stole each other's clothes and fixed each other's hair. They hated that the other one always had the most romantic boy story to tell, and they secretly thought their sister was the prettiest girl in the world.

It was her wedding day. Late that night, I sat on the floor, leaned against the wall and cried. Thousands of miles away.

I am so sorry, little girls.