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“That isn’t what I said, and you know it.”
“You didn’t have to.”
He sighs dramatically. “I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you, but we should be aware that your memory might not be fully reliable.”
“I’ll have you know—even though you should already know this—Michael was found to be mentally deranged long before his tenth birthday. The symptoms showed early, and they were blatantly obvious. The state ordered him to be locked up as a child! I never even went to detention as a kid. My grades and behavior were impeccable. I’m nothing like him. Not even close!”
“How old was your dad when he started losing his memories?”
We both know he was younger than I am now.
I swear at Peter, slam my chair against the table, then storm upstairs. It would’ve been better if I’d stayed up there in the first place. He doesn’t believe me unless someone else backs up my account.
Why can’t he see that I’m also my mother’s daughter? I guess it’s easier to cast blame than to care or look outside the box.
Fine. I can do this by myself. It wouldn’t be the first time. I’ve spent most of my life watching my own back because people who were supposed to be there for me weren’t.
But what’s the first thing I should do? Nothing makes sense, so making a plan of action is like shooting in the dark.
I consider my options, and one thing stands out. My own mother should’ve recognized it wasn’t me dropping off the kids. The fact that I showed up with them at all should’ve been a red flag, but she was probably so thrilled she didn’t think about that.
If anyone is going to help me figure out how my doppelgänger is passing herself off as me, I need to speak to the one person who has known me the longest. The woman who carried and gave birth to me.
After the fifth ring, I’m certain she won’t answer.
But she does. “What’s the special occasion? A visit with the grandkidsanda phone call in one day?”
Everyone’s a critic.
I take a deep breath. “I have a few questions.”
“Can we talk in a few minutes? I’m trying to get your dad to sleep.”
“No, this is important.”
“What do you need to know?”
“Tell me what I was acting like when I dropped off the kids.” If I’m going to get the answers I want, I have to go along with what she thinks.
“Why?”
“Because I need to know. Was I acting odd?”
“I don’t know. It was strange that you brought my grandbabies over, but I wasn’t about to question such a good thing.”
“And I was wearing a purple tank top?”
“Yeah, that one you always wear.”
I’m going to burn that thing. I had no idea everyone noticed how much I love it. “Did I look different?”
“How so?”
“I don’t know! Was my makeup the same as usual? Was I acting weird?”
A few beats pass before she responds. “It was strange how you were paying so much attention to the photos.”
“You mean the framed ones in the living room?”
