One year after my mother died, my father called me and asked me to come over for dinner.
“Just you, me, and Lena,” he said casually.
Lena was my aunt—my mother’s identical twin. Since the accident, she had been present in our lives with quiet consistency. She brought meals, helped with errands, and made sure my father was never alone for too long. At the time, I assumed the dinner invitation was practical, nothing more. I didn’t question it.
When I arrived, Lena answered the door before my father had a chance to reach it. She greeted me warmly and stepped aside.
“You’re early,” she said.
She was wearing my mother’s apron.
I told myself it meant nothing.
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