When Sasha’s newly divorced sister-in-law moves in, she expects healing, not mimicry.
But as Abby begins to dress like her, speak like her, and slip deeper into her family’s rhythm, Sasha realizes that she’s not hosting a guest, she’s housing a woman who’s trying to reclaim a life that was never hers.
She arrived with three suitcases, a bottle of red wine, and a hollowed-out smile.
Abby, my sister-in-law, was freshly divorced. My husband, Michael, didn’t even blink before inviting her to stay.
“Just for a little while,” he said, already pulling out the air mattress. “She needs somewhere to land, Sasha. I don’t know what she’s been going through…”
“Fine,” I agreed. “The air mattress will have to do for now. I’ll clear out the guest room tomorrow. I’ll change the bedding and all of that.”
“Thank you, love,” Michael said. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to help her. She’s… my responsibility since our father died.”
“I know,” I replied. “I get it. We need to tell the girls that Abby is coming.”
I cleared out the guest room. I fluffed pillows. Dusted the curtains. Picked up all the toys the kids had thrown around the room. I set a vase of flowers on the windowsill.
And all the while I pretended like I didn’t feel the walls tightening.
What I didn’t know was that I was about to be replaced in my own life.
The first week was fine. I worked from home, so it was easy to escape into my home office while Abby did her own thing. She had taken a break from work, too.
“May as well use my vacation days, huh?” she laughed, pouring a glass of wine for herself.
She played board games with Lily. Sketched and colored fairies with Ella. Abby even cooked a few meals. She complimented my leggings and my dreamcatcher tattoo. She asked for skincare tips.
I watched her float around the house like a ghost with good intentions.
I told myself that I was being too sensitive. That Abby was just getting comfortable, and honestly? It wasn’t so bad. This was her brother’s home, it was her nieces’ home. Maybe she really did need it.
But then I walked into the kitchen one morning and she was wearing my robe.
“It was just hanging in the laundry room,” she said, smiling. “I didn’t think you’d mind, Sasha.”
That was the first flicker of something darker. Something that I couldn’t pinpoint. Something that I couldn’t name.
After a little while, Abby started watching me. Not just passively but actually studying me.
My routines. My tone of voice. The way I packed the girls’ lunches and set out their clothes.
She’d mirror me, a beat too late, but still almost the same. It was like she was trying on a new personality to see how it fit.
Then came the lasagne. My recipe, of course, right down to the basil from the garden. Only hers was better. My husband raved about it, joking that I’d been officially replaced as the house cook.
I laughed tightly. That night, she tucked the girls into bed and read them my favorite story. They didn’t ask for me once.
I stood in the hallway, feeling like a guest in my own home.
And do you know what? It got even stranger.
Abby joined my yoga studio and bought the same leggings I wore to the class. She bought my exact perfume. She ordered the same phone case. Sometimes I’d catch her standing in the hallway mirror, adjusting her hair to look just like mine.
It would’ve been laughable if it didn’t feel like a slow erasure.
“Stop it, Sasha,” I told myself in the mirror one day. “She needs the help. She needs family. You’re irreplaceable here. This is your home.”
But if those affirmations were true… then why did I feel a constant pit of dread in my stomach?
Then, one night, Ella called Abby “Mom” by mistake.
“Sorry, Mommy,” she grinned, putting her hand over her mouth. “It slipped out.”
I smiled at my daughter and gave her another piece of garlic bread.
“That’s cute,” Michael chuckled. “But aunts are like second moms, aren’t they? Dad would be proud of how you’re handling… everything, Abs.”
She beamed at her brother from across the table, adding more asparagus to her plate.
“Thanks, Michael,” she said. “It’s been really difficult, but I’m grateful that I have you and Sasha and the girls to keep me going. I appreciate you all.”
I didn’t speak for the rest of dinner.
Week two rolled around and I tried to speak to my husband about my thoughts, my feelings, and my insecurities which were running wild in my head.
“She’s admiring you, love,” he said, sipping his beer. “Come on, Sash, she’s just trying to rebuild her life. I highly doubt she knows who she is without Jared. Let her borrow a little confidence from you. Maybe it will help her cope.”
“She’s not borrowing it, Michael,” I snapped. “She’s becoming me! Or trying to anyway.”
“She’s broken, Sasha,” he sighed. “She’s been through a lot… have some compassion.”
I stood there, blinking. My husband had invited a ticking bomb into our home and told me to be nice while it counted down.
I began to unravel in silence. My jaw ached from clenching so tightly all the time. I began to check locks… making sure that my jewelry was safe. It was extreme but it was necessary. Or so I thought.
I started keeping a list on my phone: the perfume, the boots, the night she laughed exactly like me at a joke Ella made.
The longer she stayed, the longer the list grew.
One evening, I came home late from a parent-teacher meeting at the girls’ school and I found Abby in the living room, flipping through our wedding album.
My pajamas. My wine glass. My couch.
“You looked so happy, Sasha,” she said without looking up.
“That’s because I was,” I replied. “It truly was the best day of my life.”
“I never got that,” she smiled. “With Jared, I mean. I think I convinced myself that watching love was the same as having it.”
I sat down across from her, wary. This was the first time that she had openly spoken about her marriage. Maybe we were getting somewhere? Maybe Michael had been right, and she was just processing her feelings?
“I used to think that I’d be okay with simple. With the bare minimum, you know? But then you came along and I saw how you and Michael did things. It was definitely beyond the bare minimum. And you had it all. Like it just… arrived.”
If I were Abby, I would have probably cried. I would have probably been upset by my own confession. It would have forced me to feel my feelings. But she wasn’t crying. And for some reason, that scared me more.
A few nights later, my sleep broke, calling for a mug of warm milk, cinnamon and honey. I tiptoed to the kitchen, careful not to wake the girls. Ella was notorious for waking up and helping herself to the cookie jar or the chocolate container.
Instead of finding the house at rest, I found the light to my office on. Abby sitting on the couch, my journal open. Pages bookmarked.
“Abby?” I called out. “What’s going on?”
“You really don’t lock this?” she replied. “Your journal. Why wouldn’t you? It’s so… personal.”
Duh, Sherlock, I thought to myself as my stomach twisted.
“What are you doing?” I asked simply, keeping my voice level.
“I wanted to know how you worked, Sash,” she said, as if this were perfectly normal. “I wanted to know how you think. You’re always so… certain. Of everything. I want to be like that.”
I stared at her. I had enough thoughts but I had no words to let them out.
“Sasha,” she said, sighing. “You’re the version of me that never had to choose.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she touched the stuffed cat that I kept on my desk. It was an old teddy that I had adored since I was a teenager. Wherever I moved, old Tibbles came with me.
“I remember this,” she said. “Tibbles, huh?”
I nodded. I wanted to be livid but I didn’t quite know how… Abby was behaving like she was unhinged. But I felt sorry for her. Disturbed, of course. But sorry nonetheless.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said. “Do you want to come with me?”
“Abby, look at the time. I’m good. But you go, there’s security patrolling the area, so you’ll be safe. Take a key.”
She smiled and nodded.
“I will, Sasha,” she said slowly. “I’m going to grab an ice cream from the freezer and I’ll be off.”
I went back to bed but I couldn’t sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. At the quiet rise and fall of Michael’s chest beside me. I felt like I was losing something I couldn’t name.
Look, I knew that Abby didn’t want my family, they were hers after all. But she was… unnerving. And I couldn’t understand it. I was close to my husband, sure. My girls were my entire universe.
But why was Abby trying to mirror me? Why did she want to be me? Did she think that she’d find her own version of a loving man? I could understand why she’d want someone with the same qualities as Michael.
He was as kind, generous, and loving as they came. More so to Abby since their father passed…
I knew it was wrong. But I did it anyway.
I went into the guest room. I opened drawers slowly. I checked under the bed.
And then I found it.
A shoebox tucked in the closet, beneath one of her bags.
Inside, there were photos of me. Some were clearly taken from behind. There were photocopied pages from my journal. There was a list.
And a page of repeated affirmations:
“Be her. Be better. Be happy. Be successful. Be her. Be better. Be happy. Be successful.”