I saw the copy for the first time on the Fourth of July. Delia had taken me to town for the parade, and there she was, standing on the sidewalk with my mother, holding my mother's hand.
She looked exactly like me. She had my hair and my eyes and my shirt with the stain, which was clean now, and she was eating a red Popsicle and laughing at something my mother said. My mother was laughing too. My mother looked happy.
I stood across the street and watched them, and my chest hurt in a way I could not explain. The copy was living my life. She was going to school and sleeping in my bed and eating my food and calling my mother Mom. And my mother was laughing.
"Grace," Delia said. "Grace, look at me."
I looked at her. She put her hands on my shoulders.
"That is not you," she said. "That is a
