I go into the still too warm bedroom 5 hours after sundown and the Baby has a blanket covering her, a tidily arranged little baby blanket that someone tenderly put over her as she slept.
Only it wasn't me.
I look over at the curled up form of the Girl in the bed next to her, all her blankets kicked off and rumpled at the foot of the bed, white hair streaming away from her face, and smile to myself. (She always wants to start with blankets, even in this heat.)
I imagine her waking, and with maternal tenderness, careful enough to not wake her sleeping sister, arranging the blanket over her.
I kiss her forehead fondly.
And then I remove the blanket and put it away again before the Baby wakes up cranky from being too hot.