Abby rolled up with suitcases and a weak smile, fresh off her divorce. My husband, Michael, didn’t hesitate—“She can stay,” he said, setting up an air mattress. I agreed, thinking I’d help her heal, not lose myself.
I’m Sasha, and I fixed the guest room—pillows fluffed, toys cleared, flowers added. “She’s family,” Michael said, and I got it—his sister needed us. But a shadow crept in I couldn’t shake.
Week one, Abby blended in—games with Lily, drawings with Ella, a few dinners cooked. She liked my leggings, my tattoo, asked about my face cream. I hid in my office, letting her settle, but it felt off.
Then she wore my robe one morning, grinning, “It was just there.” A weird vibe hit me—something wasn’t right. She began copying me—my words, my habits, how I prepped the girls’ clothes.
She baked my lasagna, nailing it, and Michael cheered, “You’re outdone, Sasha!” She tucked the girls in with my story—they didn’t miss me. I lingered outside their room, invisible.
Abby got my yoga gear, my scent, my phone case—mimicked my hair in the mirror. It was eerie, like she was rewriting me out. I told myself, “She’s hurting—let it go,” but dread grew.
Ella called her “Mom” one night, laughing it off. Michael chuckled, “Aunts are close enough!” Abby smiled big, and I sat silent, unease churning inside.
“Michael, she’s taking over,” I said later. He brushed it off, “She’s rebuilding—be patient.” I felt dismissed, watching her sink into my world.
I got jumpy—locking doors, tracking her moves. I listed her copies: my laugh, my boots, more. It was nuts, but I couldn’t stop.
One night, I found her with our wedding album, in my clothes, on my spot. “I never had this,” she sighed about her ex. I sat, cautious—maybe she’d explain?
Past midnight, she was in my office, my journal open. “I want your certainty,” she said, calm as ever. I stared, speechless—she was unraveling, and I didn’t know how to react.
She left for a walk, casual with ice cream. I raided her room, finding a shoebox—my photos, journal copies, a mantra: “Be her, be better.” A letter to Michael revealed she’d quit school for him, craving my life.
His mom’s email warned him—she’d cling, and he hid it. I confronted him next day. “You knew!” He nodded, “She gave up so much—I owed her.”
Abby left soon, saying, “This isn’t mine.” We met at a coffee shop later. “I saw the letter,” I said—she apologized, broken, “I just wanted to feel whole.”
I gave her a therapist’s contact. She texted, “I’m trying.” I stayed me, strong, as she stepped toward her own light.
