Abby arrived with bags and wine, her divorce still raw. Michael, my husband, opened our door wide—“She needs us,” he said, grabbing the air mattress. I’m Sasha, and I thought I’d help her, not lose my place.
I set up the guest room—clean sheets, a vase of blooms, kid toys gone. “She’s my sister,” Michael said, and I agreed, ready to support. But a quiet unease settled in fast.
She fit in at first—board games with Lily, sketches with Ella, a meal or two. She eyed my style, my ink, my beauty hacks. I worked from home, dodging her presence, but it shifted.
One day, she wore my robe, casual, “It was hanging there.” A flicker of weirdness hit me. She started echoing me—my tone, my lunch-packing, my daily flow.
Her lasagna outshone mine—Michael loved it, teasing I’d lost my crown. She read my girls to sleep with my tale—they didn’t need me. I stood outside, fading in my own space.
She grabbed my yoga stuff, my fragrance, my phone case—mimicked my hair. It was odd, like she was peeling me away. I whispered, “She’s just lost,” but my gut twisted.
Ella giggled, “Mom,” to Abby one night—Michael laughed it off, “Aunts are special!” Abby basked in it, and I stayed mute, rattled deep down.
“She’s becoming me,” I told Michael. “She’s healing,” he said, “let her lean on you.” I felt sidelined, watching her take root.
I turned wary—checking locks, noting her copies: my laugh, my shoes. I tracked it all, feeling crazy. She was everywhere, and I was shrinking.
One evening, she sat with our wedding album, in my pajamas, my spot. “I missed this,” she said of love. I sat, curious—was this a breakthrough?
Late one night, she read my journal in my office. “I want your sureness,” she said simply. I gaped—she was off, and it shook me.
She grabbed ice cream and walked out. I searched her room—a shoebox held my pics, journal bits, “Be her, be better” scrawled endlessly. A letter to Michael said she’d ditched college for him, yearning for my life.
His mom’s email begged him not to let her stay—she’d cling. He’d known, kept quiet. I faced him, “You let this happen!” He sighed, “I felt I owed her.”
Abby left, admitting, “This isn’t me.” At a coffee shop later, I said, “I read it.” She owned it, soft, “I wanted to feel alive,” and I gave her a therapist’s name.
She messaged, “I’m hopeful.” I stayed Sasha, solid, as she found her own path—not mine.
