Ellie wanted a high tea. We picked a sunny afternoon in spring, not long before her 12th birthday
When I was about 12, I had my confirmation. I wore the same lacy white dress my terminally ill sister had worn two years earlier, with a red sash I had screen-printed at my Catholic school with a dove, symbolising the Holy Spirit.
Typically, a child picks a saint’s name as their confirmation name, someone they would most like to emulate. I was permitted to take the name of someone who was still alive, Lúcia of Fátima. Her cousin had been the one to see Mary, mother of God, before dying young and innocent. Lucia, on the other hand, had been condemned to live into old age. I could relate to Lucia. My sister, living with brain cancer, had always been the religious one.
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