His Dead Wife's Twin

Chapter 9

At five years old, I start to realize I’m not like my twin sister. We look exactly the same. The same light brown hair, straight and smooth down our backs, the same almond-shaped eyes with soft amber pupils, the same smile, the same single dimple on one cheek, even the same height. Looking at Elena is like looking in a mirror. So I don’t understand why our parents treat us so differently.

Mom adores Elena. She has pictures of her everywhere, on the fridge, on the bedside table in her room. When I ask why there aren’t any of me, she just shrugs and says, “ But you look exactly the same. How do you know that isn’t you? ”

It’s supposed to be funny. A joke. But I’m five, not stupid. I know my smiles are never that wide, my stance never that light, never that carefree. “ I’m not in any of the pictures, ” I tell her, because I don’t know yet that my opinions don’t matter.

Mom sighs, like I’m saying something ridiculous. “ Of course you are, Esmeray. What are you talking about? This is you, isn’t it? ” She holds up a photo. Elena at Disneyland, grinning, a balloon clasped in her hand.

I wasn’t even there that day.

I was sick. Mom said I was ruining the trip for Elena, so I told them to go without me, I’d be fine. Mom said the babysitter would come soon. Then she left.

But no one came.

When I got so thirsty my legs felt like noodles and I couldn’t make it downstairs? No one came.

When I cried because I was alone and scared? Mom told me I was being dramatic, that Elena never acted like that.

“It’s not me,” I say, clutching Mr. Rooney tight to my chest, my squirrel plushie with one ear that flops lower than the other.

Mom doesn’t even blink. “Are you sure?”

“I always hold Mr. Rooney,” I say with a firm nod. “Everywhere.”

She just laughs. “Oh, but we can just Photoshop Mr. Rooney in there, and then it would be you, right?” She beams, proud of her solution.

I want to say no. I want to tell her that Mr. Rooney isn’t the point. That even if they pasted ten Mr. Rooneys all over that photo, it still wouldn’t be me.

But I don’t have the heart to argue. So I just nod.

Years pass, and then I turn ten.

Dad, who has never said a harsh word to me, who I always felt saw me, buys a present for Elena . Not for me.

It’s Elena’s birthday, which means it’s my birthday too. But when Mom and Elena are planning it, I hear them say things like, “ I can’t believe you’re turning ten this week! ”

“ Oh, you won’t believe the surprise I have for you, my little baby Elena! ”

I sit right there at the dining table, listening, but no one notices. No one says how happy they are that I’m turning ten. No one asks me what I want for my birthday.

Elena gasps, eyes shining. “I want a doll !” She talks so fast she might as well need subtitles. “ The one I saw on the shelf at Target, the one you said you’d get me! It has long blonde hair, really long legs, and it’s dressed like a superhero ! It’s the coolest doll ever! ”

I open my mouth, ready to suggest my own birthday gift. I want a small sports car, the kind that makes sounds and has blinking lights. But before I can get the words out, Elena is already taking a breath.

“ And it would be absolutely great if you got me the dress-up set too! ” She bats her long lashes, voice dripping with sugar.

Mom laughs, delighted. “ Look how pretty she begs, honey. ”

Dad chuckles, shaking his head. “ She’s gonna have one lucky guy wrapped around her finger one day. ”

“ You bet! ” Elena declares, flicking her fingers and rolling her head with practiced sass. Our parents laugh again, calling her adorable, a word they never seem to get tired of when it comes to Elena.

I inhale sharply, raising my voice louder than usual, trying to be heard over the noise. “ It would be nice, ” I start, “ if I got a gift too. ”

Their heads turn. Their eyes land on me.

And suddenly, my voice shrinks to almost nothing.

“ What’s that, sweetheart? ” Dad asks.

But before I can summon the courage to repeat myself, Mom cuts in.

“ Baby girl, do you know the size of cake I ordered for you? ”

Elena gasps. “ Does it have Barbie and Ken on top, like I wanted? ”

“ You know it does! ”

Elena squeals, bouncing with excitement. Mom beams. Dad smiles the kind of smile that says he’s proud, the kind of smile that never seems to falter when it comes to her .

I sit back.

And I give up.

I still hold onto hope. I mean, how do you forget your daughter is a twin? How do you forget she has the same birthday?

Ten-year-old me doesn’t bring it up, not out loud, because no one listens, and no one cares. But deep down, I keep thinking someone will remember. Someone has to.