Tell yourself a story. The story you always repeat in bed at night when sleep is far off. The story that settles around you, nestling in the sheets and curling around your toes. Tell yourself about what would have happened if only. About how it should have gone. About what would happen differently if one or two or everything changed.
Tell yourself about your father living. About your sister's laugh when she woke up in the hospital. About the relief that didn't just wash over you but positively monsooned your entire being, until you physically collapsed on the sterile hospital tile (beige, marbled) and closed your eyes-- but it was still real when you opened them again.
Or maybe it was the doorbell that delivered your alternate reality. Maybe like the three kings, a delay of several years followed the bearer of news. Maybe you didn't quite recognize them-- you couldn't quite be sure-- but there was no way it could be anyone else. There were a few days of awkwardness, of getting used to one another's presence, reacquainting of mannerisms. But slowly it all clicked back into place-- or into a new format. Either way, you were so glad that doorbell had rung.
