My mom died in a car accident—one moment she was here, the next she wasn’t. She was the first person I told good news to and my late-night meme buddy. She was the voice that told me I could handle things when I wasn’t sure I could.
A year later, my dad invited me to dinner with “just you, me, and Lena.” Lena was my aunt—Mom’s twin, who’d been helping out a lot. When I arrived, everything looked exactly like Mom had just cleaned it. Lena even wore my mother’s apron. Dinner was polite, but uncanny.
Then Dad told me they were engaged. Lena had been living with him for months. I was stunned.
In the weeks that followed, Lena was everywhere, praised for “stepping in.” People said Mom would’ve wanted it, but I wasn’t sure.
At a pre-wedding party, my grandmother pulled me aside and showed me old photos and Lena’s journals. Over time, Lena had begun copying my mom—hair, mannerisms, even how she cared for Dad. After Mom died, her texts showed Lena wasn’t comforting Dad so much as replacing Mom.
I rushed back to the ceremony and stopped it, exposing Lena’s behavior. Dad paused the wedding. For the first time since Mom died, I spoke the truth.