I looked at her, confused.
“People think twins want to be the same. Your mother hated that. She wanted to be herself. Lena wanted sameness.”
She opened the albums. In early photos, the difference was clear. My mom laughed freely. Lena smiled carefully, always watching.
As the years went on, they looked more and more alike. Same hair. Same clothes.
“She copied her?” I asked.
“Yes,” Grandma said. “But it wasn’t just appearance.”
She showed me a notebook. The handwriting was tight and heavy.
Everyone listens to her. I practice what to say and still disappear.
They say we’re the same, but they always choose her.
My stomach dropped.
Then Grandma opened her tablet. Messages from Lena, sent after my mother’s death.
At first, they sounded helpful.
He hasn’t eaten today.
I stayed so he wouldn’t be alone.
Then the tone shifted.
He listens to me better than anyone.
I know how she did things. He responds when I do them the same way.
Adrienne was just a placeholder.
I felt sick.
“She didn’t just comfort him,” I said. “She replaced Mom.”
Grandma nodded, tears in her eyes. “I was afraid to push her away. I didn’t want to lose another daughter.”
“They’re getting married today,” I said. “Dad needs to know.”
