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A beat passes, too heavy to be casual. She clears her throat. “I, uh… I heard about what happened. From Dad.”

My heart stutters. Of course she did. Of course he told her. But still, hearing her say it makes the silence between us louder.

“He said you were in a coma.” Her voice cracks a little. “Three months?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. Woke up to find out I gave birth without even knowing it.”

Her eyes fill. Isabel’s eyes. The girl who once didn’t cry when her cat died. “I should’ve called. I should’ve come.”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she says quickly. “Mya, I should’ve been there. I didn’t know how to reach out, and then when I figured it out, it felt too late and I—I just kept putting it off like that would somehow fix it.”

She’s rambling. She’s rambling. Isabel, queen of cutting comments and immaculate exits, is unraveling in real time.

My throat tightens. “You don’t have to explain.”

“I do.” She wipes at her cheek with the back of her hand, eyes glossy. “I was scared. I thought… I thought maybe I’d lost you for good.”

I exhale slowly. “You didn’t.”

“I should’ve been there,” she whispers again, like saying it might undo the damage.

I sit back against the couch, curling my knees up to my chest. “You’re here now.”

She nods, but the guilt is still bleeding through the cracks. “They’re okay? The babies?”

“Yeah. They’re home. Healthy. Loud as hell.”

A watery laugh slips out of her. “They take after you then.”

“Probably.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… tender. Like we’re both feeling around the edge of something neither of us knows how to hold yet.

“I want to see them,” she says, tentative now. “When you’re ready.”

I nod, throat thick. “Okay.”

We sit in the quiet for a second longer before I end the call.

Not because I’m angry.

Not because I don’t want her to see the boys.

But because right now, I’m still working on remembering how to let my sister back into a life she left behind.

And some things—like healing, or forgiveness—don’t come on command.

Some things take time.

The call ends, and for a second, I just sit there.

Staring at the darkened screen like it might offer answers it doesn’t have.

Like it might tell me what to do with the flood of emotion pushing against my ribs.

My fingers are still trembling.