A year after my mother died, my father called and asked me to come over for dinner.
“Just you, me, and Lena,” he said, his tone casual, almost careful.
Lena was my aunt—my mother’s identical twin. Since the accident, she had been everywhere. She brought casseroles we barely touched, picked up groceries, handled paperwork my dad couldn’t face, and made sure the house never stayed quiet for too long. I assumed this dinner was just another attempt to keep normalcy alive. I didn’t question it.
When I arrived, Lena opened the door before my dad could.
“You’re early,” she said, smiling as she stepped aside.
She was wearing my mother’s apron.
I told myself it didn’t mean anything. People borrow things. Grief makes everyone strange.
Inside, the house smelled like lemon cleaner and roasted chicken. It was immaculate—unnervingly so. The throw pillows were aligned with surgical precision. Old magazines were stacked neatly on the coffee table, fanned out exactly the way my mom used to when she was anxious and needed to clean to feel in control.
It felt less like home and more like a museum display of my childhood.
Dinner passed politely. The food was good. No one said anything inappropriate. And yet, I couldn’t stop noticing the small things.
Lena refilled my dad’s water glass just before he reached for it. When he stretched for the salt, it slid into his hand without her looking. She anticipated him the way my mother used to. His rhythms, his habits, his silences.
Then my dad put his fork down.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he said.
My chest tightened before he even spoke the words.
“Lena and I are engaged. We’re getting married.”
The sentence didn’t hit all at once. It fractured. My mind tried to assemble it into something logical and failed.
“Oh,” I managed.
Across the table, Lena reached for his hand, her fingers settling into his palm with a familiarity that made my skin crawl.
“I know this is a lot,” she said softly. “But we’ve been leaning on each other for a long time.”
My dad nodded. “After your mom died, I couldn’t function. Lena was here every day. Making sure I ate. Slept. Had clean clothes. She’s been living here for months.”
Months.
The word echoed in my head.
“We realized life’s too short,” he added. “I didn’t want to waste it.”
They both looked at me, waiting. For approval. For relief. For permission.
“I’m just… surprised,” I said finally.
Lena smiled like that settled everything. “That’s normal.”
I nodded because it was easier than saying the truth—that the room felt too tight, the air too thick, and every instinct in my body wanted to leave.
After that, things moved fast.
People called it beautiful. Healing. A sign of resilience. Some even said my mother would have wanted it this way.
I never said what I was thinking.
Would she?
At the pre-wedding gathering, I sat near a window, watching guests laugh and toast while Lena moved effortlessly through the room. She wore her hair in a low bun with loose strands framing her face.
Exactly the way my mom used to.
I couldn’t stop noticing.
My grandmother found me there, studying me quietly.
“You look miserable,” she said gently. “Do you want to tell me why?”
“I don’t understand how this is happening so fast,” I admitted. “It feels like Mom didn’t even get time to be gone.”
Her breath caught. She took my hand, her grip firm.
“You need to know the truth,” she whispered. “Your mother would have wanted you to know.”
She led me out without drawing attention and took me to her house. In the attic, she retrieved a box she handled like it was fragile enough to break.
“I never dressed them alike,” she said suddenly.
I frowned. “What?”
“Your mother hated being matched. She was louder. Brighter. She wanted to be herself. Lena preferred sameness.”
She opened the box. Photo albums. Old notebooks.
In the early photos, the differences were obvious. My mom leaning forward, laughing too hard. Lena standing just behind her, smiling carefully. But as the years went on, those differences blurred. Same haircuts. Same clothes. Same posture.
“She copied her,” I whispered.
“Yes,” my grandmother said. “And it wasn’t harmless.”
She handed me a notebook. The handwriting was tight, sharp.
Everyone listens to her.
They say we’re the same, but they never choose me.
My throat tightened.
Then she showed me messages Lena had sent after my mom died.
At first, they sounded helpful. Practical.
Then they changed.
I know how she did things. He responds when I do them the same way.
It feels like I belong here. Adrienne was just a placeholder.
I felt sick.
“This isn’t grief,” I said. “It’s replacement.”
“I should have stopped it,” my grandmother whispered. “I was afraid of losing another daughter.”
My phone vibrated.
The wedding was starting.
We rushed back. The ceremony was already underway. Lena stood in white, smiling up at my dad like she’d always been meant to be there.
“Wait,” I shouted.
The room froze.
“Dad, you can’t do this,” I said, my heart pounding. “This isn’t love. It’s imitation.”
Lena’s smile collapsed.
I held up the evidence. “She studied Mom. Copied her. Slid into her life the moment she was gone.”
My dad turned to Lena. “Is that true?”
She hesitated.
He stepped back.
“Oh,” he said quietly. “It is.”
“I think we need to stop,” he said. “I can’t marry you.”
Lena’s voice cracked. “This was supposed to be my chance.”
For the first time in a year, no one tried to soften the truth.
And I didn’t stay silent.
Some endings aren’t gentle. Some aren’t joyful.
Some are just honest.
And sometimes, that has to be enough.