The breaking point came two weeks later. Mira’s old prom dress—a deep emerald satin she had saved for a formal in college—hung in the shared closet. Lena asked to borrow it. “It’ll be too short on me,” Lena said, “but I can wear it as a tunic with leggings.”

Lena went silent. She stepped back, and for a moment, she seemed to shrink. She didn’t slam the door. She just walked away, and that was worse.

Lena grinned. “You want to borrow my platform boots for the party next week?”

“I was just asking,” Lena said, her voice soft. But Mira saw the flash of hurt. Then came the thing Mira couldn’t take back. “You think just because you’re taller now, you get everything? You get the height, the attention, the easy laugh? You’re still the little sister, Lena. Stop pretending you’re not.”

Then the summer after Mira’s freshman year of college happened.

Too short. The words were a knife. Mira had worn that dress as a floor-length gown. Now it was a shirt on her baby sister.

“What happened to you?” Mira asked, her voice cracking.

Mira felt the earth tilt. She was 5’8” on a good day. In the months she’d been away, writing essays and learning to do her own taxes, Lena had become a giraffe. The family dinner that night was a minefield. Their mother kept saying, “Look how you two have changed!” while their father silently carved the roast, pretending not to notice Mira’s clenched jaw.

“Now you’d probably get a mouthful of my hair if you tried.”

“You know,” Mira whispered, “I used to put my chin on top of your head when we hugged.”

She walked down the hall to Lena’s room. The door was ajar. Lena was sitting on the bed, knees pulled to her chest, which was now a very long way up. Mira didn’t say a word. She just climbed onto the bed, sat down, and leaned her head against Lena’s shoulder.

“Absolutely,” she said. “But I’m wearing the taller pair.”

She came home in May, arms full of dirty laundry and a smug sense of adult accomplishment. Lena picked her up at the bus station. When Mira stepped off the Greyhound, she froze. Lena was leaning against the car, arms crossed, wearing the same smirk Mira used to wear. Only now, Lena was looking down at her.

“No,” Mira snapped. “It’s mine.”