Mitchell had never made the process feel like a burden. That was one of the reasons Wendy had fallen in love with him in the first place, though she would not have been able to articulate it that clearly when she was twenty-one and meeting him outside a coffee cart on the edge of downtown Raleigh. She would have said he was funny. Or calm. Or kind in a way that did not feel performative. What she meant was this: he did not treat her like there was something fundamentally wrong with her that needed to be managed.
That difference had shocked her more than romance itself.
In the house where she grew up, being Wendy meant existing in relation to Cheryl. Cheryl was three years younger, prettier according to everyone who liked saying so out loud, warmer in public, sharper in private, and somehow always positioned as the child who deserved more protection, more patience, more praise, more room. Wendy had spent most of grade school and all of high school learning the rules of that system even when no one admitted there were rules.
If Wendy cried, Suzanne said she was dramatic.
If Cheryl cried, Suzanne said she was sensitive.