There are moments you never recover from

There are moments you never recover from. Moments that cut so deep, you feel them in everything you do. For me, it happened six years ago, in a hospital room filled with the sound of beeping, shouted orders, and my own heartbeat in my ears. I went into labor with twins, Junie and Eliza. Except… only one made it out alive. They told me my baby didn’t make it. Complications, they said, as if that explained the empty space in my arms. I never even got to see her. There are moments you never recover from. We named her Eliza in whispers, a name carried like a secret between my husband, Michael, and me. But as the years dragged on, the grief changed us. Michael left, unable to live with my sadness, or maybe his own. So it became just the two of us: me and Junie, and the invisible shadow of the daughter I’d never known. The first day of first grade felt like a fresh start. Junie marched up the sidewalk, pigtails swinging, and I waved, praying she’d make friends. I spent the day cleaning, trying to scrub off my nerves. The grief changed us. “Relax, Phoebe,” I said out loud. “June-bug’s going to be just fine.” That afternoon, I barely had time to set down the sponge before the front door slammed. Junie burst in, backpack half open, cheeks flushed. “Mom! Tomorrow you have to pack one more lunchbox!” I blinked, rinsing soap from my hands. “One more? Why, sweetheart? Did Mommy not pack enough?” She tossed her backpack onto the floor and rolled her eyes, like I should already know. “For my sister.” A jolt of confusion ran through me. “Your… sister? Honey, you know you’re my only girl.” “Tomorrow you have to pack one more lunchbox!” Junie shook her head stubbornly. For a moment, she looked just like Michael. “No, Mom. I’m not. I met my sister today. Her name’s Lizzy.” I fought to stay calm. “Lizzy, huh? Is she new at school?” “Yes! She sits right next to me!” Junie was already fishing in her backpack. “And she looks like me. Like… the same. Except her hair is parted on the other side.” A strange chill ran down my back. “What does she like for lunch, baby?” “She said peanut butter and jelly,” Junie said. “But she said she’s never had it at school before. She liked that you put more jelly than her mom.” “I met my sister today. Her name’s Lizzy.” “Is that so?” I asked. Then Junie’s face brightened. “Oh! Want to see a picture? I used the camera like you said!” I’d bought her one of those little pink disposable film cameras for her first day. I thought it’d be fun, and help her make memories. And that I could make a scrapbook for her later. She handed me the camera, so proud of herself. “Ms. Kelsey helped take a photo of us. Lizzy was shy! Ms. Kelsey asked if we were sisters.” I scrolled through the photos. There they were, two little girls by the cubbies, matching eyes, same curly hair, and even similar freckles just under their left eyes. Junie’s face brightened. I nearly dropped the camera. “Honey, did you know Lizzy before today?” She shook her head. “Nope. But she said we should be friends, since we look the same. Mom, can she come over for a playdate? She said her mom walks her to school, but maybe next time you could meet her?” I tried to keep my tone steady. “Maybe, baby. We’ll see.” *** That night, I sat on the couch staring at the photo, heart thudding, hope and dread battling in my chest. But deep down, I already knew, somehow, this was only the beginning. “But she said we should be friends, since we look the same.” The next morning, I gripped the steering wheel so hard my knuckles ached. Junie babbled about her teacher and “Lizzy’s favorite color” the whole way, completely oblivious. The school parking lot was chaos, cars, kids, and