The last time I saw my sister Laura, she was barefoot in her wedding dress, spinning under string lights on our Iowa farm. Her dress was stained with barbecue sauce and red clay, but she was glowing—radiant and joyful, yet with a flicker of something else I couldn’t name.

“Can you believe it, Emmy?” she asked, breathless. “I’m actually married.”

I squeezed her hand and told her it suited her. Her husband, Luke, looked at her like the luckiest man alive. Still, I caught a shadow in her smile when no one was looking. I asked if she was happy. She started to answer, but we were interrupted—and that was the last real conversation we had.