“You can’t do it.” Lizbeth scowled.
Betty shrugged a shoulder at her cousin and put the hand-bound manuscript in the box beside her.
“You’ll ruin it.”
“I won’t,” Betty countered. “I’ll be gentle.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Lizbeth folded her arms and planted her feet firmly on the dusty floor of their late aunt’s apartment. Her color rose. She was jealous but would never admit it.
Betty always got the best of everything: Summer camp, long visits with Aunt Mathilde, a degree in writing, even a dad who taught her Swedish.
“I’ll be gentle in my translation,” Betty caressed Aunt Mathilde’s poetry booklet. “Dad will help. Her words languished long enough without being read.”