I remember telling myself that grief could make people believe impossible things.
Maybe someone had found Rebecca’s journals.
Maybe someone had known us as children.
Maybe this was fraud.
Maybe I was about to walk into the cruelest scam imaginable.
Those explanations were easier than the alternative.
The dental office occupied a brick building between a pediatric clinic and a tax accountant.
I parked crookedly.
Inside, the receptionist recognized me immediately.
“You’re Natalie?”
I nodded.
Her expression made my chest hurt.
Not suspicion.
Not confusion.
Pity.
She pointed toward the far corner.
A woman was sitting beside a fake ficus tree.
She stood.
My entire body went numb.
She didn’t look exactly like the twenty-two-year-old Rebecca trapped in my memories.
Of course she didn’t.
She was thirty-two now.
So was I.
Her hair, once waist-length and nearly black, had been cut just below her jaw.
There was a thin scar running from her left temple toward her ear.
Her clothes were unfamiliar—linen pants, worn sneakers, an oversized green cardigan.
She looked thinner than me.
Older around the eyes.
Different.
And still unmistakably my sister.
We had never been identical in the way strangers thought twins were identical.
My nose had always been slightly narrower.
Rebecca had a tiny dimple beside her mouth.
But standing across that waiting room, it felt like looking at a version of my own life that had taken a road I had never seen.
She gave me a nervous smile.
“Hi.”
Something violent rose in my chest.
“Don’t.”
The smile vanished.
“Okay.”
I didn’t hug her.
I didn’t move toward her.
Instead I asked, “What happened to Mr. Floppy?”
Her forehead creased.
Then her eyes filled with tears.
“You threw him off the dock because I said rabbits could swim.”
I felt sick.
Mr. Floppy had been my stuffed rabbit.
I had blamed Rebecca for losing it for nearly fifteen years.
“What did Dad call the dent in the garage door?”
“The meteor.”
“Who actually made it?”
“You did.”
My eyes burned.
Rebecca gave the smallest laugh.
“You backed Mom’s station wagon into it when you were sixteen. Dad blamed the delivery truck because he knew Mom would take away your license.”
I couldn’t speak.
She stepped toward me.
I stepped back.
Pain crossed her face.
“Nat—”
“No.”
She stopped.
I stared at the scar beside her ear.
“Tell me you’re not her.”
Rebecca swallowed.
“I can’t.”
“Tell me.”
“I’m sorry.”
