In the morning I would get up and remove the chair. Rachel burst forth from her room, rounded the wall separating our rooms, threw open my door and with a running lean, land on top of me. Her grin revealing the little black tooth in the middle of her smile. "It's time to get up, twin" she gushed, kissing me as she giggled her way off the bed.

The night - the fight - was forgotten and the sun shone brightly through my window. We raced down the hall and hurried, bum first, down the stairs, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, one step at a time. We listened and laughed at the way our voices became distored with each plummet.

All was light. All was laughter.

Until we came to the bottom of the stairs and saw my mother's bruised arms and swollen face. She saw our hesitation and said she was fine and not to worry about the bruises - that they didn't hurt. And she stooped down and hugged us both and told us how much she loved her little twinsies.

Then she made us pancakes for breakfast.