When she moved to Denver, my sister in law and I had some things to talk about for the first time in the roughly 10 years I’d been seeing her sister. I’m from Denver.
It helped that she took an interest in the Rockies.
Visiting my parents now also included walks around 16th Street with her, stops at Diedrich Coffee, and evenings tasting Denver’s newest microbrews in her Capital Hill apartment. I was full of envy; she lived the life I yearned for as a suburban adolescent: urban, single, cool.
Her marriage changed those visits a little. She and her wife got a house with a garden, so instead of walking downtown we sat around the firepit in the backyard. We still drank microbrews though. We started bringing a baby on those visits.
That season ended before I could really appreciate it when she abruptly moved to France by herself. She visited us in Los Angeles while she was securing her visa, and we only saw her one more time after that, when we visited for three days in 2015. Another city apartment. A different wife. It didn’t feel like it fit.
My sister in law and I had leaving Denver in common now, but that felt more like a divide than a bond.