When Sasha’s recently divorced sister-in-law moves in, she expects healing, not mimicry. But when Abby starts dressing like her, talking like her, and increasingly merging into her family’s rhythms, Sasha realizes she’s not welcoming a guest, but a woman trying to reclaim a life that was never hers.
He arrived with three suitcases, a bottle of red wine and a hollow smile.
Abby, my sister-in-law, had just gotten divorced. My husband, Michael, didn’t even blink before inviting her to stay.
Suitcases on a porch | Source: Midjourney
“Just a little while,” he said, already pulling out the inflatable mattress. “He needs a place to land, Sasha. I don’t know what he’s been through…”
“Okay,” I agreed. “The air mattress will have to do for now. Tomorrow I’ll clean the guest room. I’ll change the bedding and all that.”
“Thank you, honey,” Michael said. “I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else to help her. It’s… my responsibility since our father died.”
A black air mattress on a carpet | Source: Midjourney
“I know,” I replied. “I understand. We have to tell the girls Abby’s coming.”
I cleaned the guest room. I fluffed the pillows. I dusted the curtains. I picked up all the toys the kids had thrown around the room. I put a vase of flowers on the windowsill.
And the whole time I pretended I didn’t feel the walls pressing in on me.
What I didn’t know was that I was about to be replaced in my own life.
An emerald and white guest bedroom | Source: Midjourney
The first week went well. I worked from home, so it was easy to escape to my office while Abby did her things. She had also taken a break from work.
“I better make the most of my vacation time, huh?” he laughed, pouring himself a glass of wine.
She played board games with Lily. She drew and colored fairies with Ella. Abby even cooked some meals. She complimented my leggings and my dreamcatcher tattoo. She asked me for skincare advice.
A glass of wine on the kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney
I saw her floating around the house like a ghost with good intentions.
I told myself I was being overly sensitive. That Abby was just getting comfortable, and honestly… It wasn’t that big of a deal. It was her brother’s house, her nieces’ house. Maybe she really needed it.
But one morning I walked into the kitchen and I was wearing my robe.
“It was hanging in the laundry,” he said, smiling. “I thought you wouldn’t mind, Sasha.”
A woman in a robe | Source: Midjourney
That was the first glimmer of something darker. Something I couldn’t pinpoint. Something I couldn’t name.
After a while, Abby started watching me. Not just passively, but studying me .
My routines. My tone of voice. The way I packed the girls’ lunches and clothes.
I reflected back, a little late, but almost the same. It was like trying on a new personality to see how it fit.
A thoughtful woman sitting at a desk | Source: Midjourney
Next came the lasagna. My recipe , of course, right down to the garden basil. Only his was better. My husband was full of praise and joked that I’d officially been replaced as the cook in the house.
I laughed out loud. That night, he tucked the girls into bed and read them my favorite story. They didn’t ask about me once.
I stood in the hallway, feeling like a guest in my own home.
A pan of lasagna | Source: Midjourney
And you know what? It got even weirder.
Abby joined my yoga studio and bought the same leggings I wore to class. She bought my same perfume. She ordered the same phone case. Sometimes I’d catch her standing in front of the hall mirror, styling her hair to look like mine.
It would have been laughable if it didn’t feel like a slow erasure.
“Enough, Sasha,” I said to myself one day in front of the mirror. “He needs help. He needs his family. You’re irreplaceable here . This is your home.”
The inside of a yoga studio | Source: Midjourney
But if those statements were true… why did I feel a constant pit of terror in my stomach?
Then one night, Ella called Abby “Mom” by mistake.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she smiled, covering her mouth with her hand. “It slipped out.”
I smiled at my daughter and gave her another piece of garlic bread.
Garlic bread on a wooden board | Source: Midjourney
“That’s sweet,” Michael laughed. “But aunts are like second mothers, aren’t they? Dad would be proud of how you’re handling… everything, Abs.”
He smiled at his brother across the table, adding more asparagus to his plate.
“Thank you, Michael,” she said. “It’s been very difficult, but I’m grateful to have you, Sasha, and the girls to keep me going. I appreciate you all.”
I didn’t speak for the rest of dinner.
A woman sitting at the dining table | Source: Midjourney
The second week arrived and I tried to talk to my husband about my thoughts, feelings, and insecurities that were crowding my head.
“He’s admiring you, love,” he said, taking a sip of his beer. “Come on, Sash, he’s just trying to get his life together. I highly doubt he’ll know who he is without Jared. Let him borrow a little of your trust. Maybe it’ll help him cope.”
“He’s not going to borrow her, Michael,” I snapped. “He’s turning into me. Or he’s trying to.”
A man sitting on a sofa | Source: Midjourney
“She’s devastated, Sasha,” he sighed. “She’s been through a lot… have some compassion.”
I stood there, blinking. My husband had invited a ticking time bomb into our house and told me to be nice while the clock ticked down.
I began to unravel silently. My jaw hurt from clenching it so hard all the time. I started checking locks… making sure my jewelry was safe. It was extreme, but necessary. Or so I thought.
A worried woman standing in a living room | Source: Midjourney
I started keeping a list on my phone: the perfume, the boots, the night she laughed exactly the same way I did at a joke Ella made.
The longer he stayed, the longer the list grew.
One night, I came home late from a parent-teacher conference at the girls’ school and found Abby in the living room, flipping through our wedding album.
A woman standing on a porch | Source: Midjourney
My pajamas. My glass of wine. My couch.
“You seemed very happy, Sasha,” he said without looking up.
“That’s because I was,” I replied. “It was truly the best day of my life.”
“I never understood that,” she smiled. “With Jared, I mean. I think I convinced myself that seeing love was the same as having it.”
A woman leafing through an album | Source: Midjourney
I sat across from her, wary. It was the first time she’d spoken openly about her marriage. Maybe we were getting somewhere? Maybe Michael was right and she was just processing her feelings?
“I used to think I’d be fine 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 bare minimum. And you had everything. Like it just… came.”
If I were Abby, I probably would have cried. I probably would have been angry about my own confession. I would have forced myself to feel my feelings. But she wasn’t crying. And for some reason, that scared me more.
A woman sitting on a sofa, looking worried | Source: Midjourney
A few nights later, my dream was interrupted by a request for a cup of hot milk, cinnamon, and honey. I tiptoed to the kitchen, careful not to wake the girls. She had a reputation for waking up and raiding the cookie jar or the hot chocolate container.
Instead of finding the house in a state of rest, I found the light on in my office. Abby was sitting on the couch, my journal open. Pages marked.
“Abby?” I yelled. “What’s wrong?”
A cup of milk with cinnamon and honey | Source: Midjourney
“Are you really not going to lock this?” she replied. “Your diary. Why wouldn’t you? It’s so… personal.”
Duh, Sherlock , I thought, my stomach twisting.
“What are you doing?” I asked simply, keeping my voice level.
“I wanted to know how you worked, Sash,” she said, as if it were a normal occurrence. “I wanted to know how you think. You’re always so… sure. About everything. I want to be like that.”
A diary on a desk | Source: Midjourney
I stared at her. I had so many thoughts, but no words to express them.
“Sasha,” he sighed. “You’re the version of me who never had to choose.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she touched the stuffed cat on her desk. It was an old stuffed animal I’d adored since I was a teenager. Wherever I moved, old Tibbles came with me.
A teddy bear on a desk | Source: Midjourney
“I remember this,” he said. “Tibbles, huh?”
I nodded. I wanted to be furious, but I didn’t know how … Abby acted like she was disturbed. But I felt sorry for her. Disturbed, of course . But sorry nonetheless.
“I’m going for a walk,” he said. “Do you want to come with me?”
A woman standing in a doorway | Source: Midjourney
“Abby, look what time it is. I’m fine. But you go, there’s security patrolling the area, so you’ll be safe. Here’s a key.”
She smiled and nodded.
“I will, Sasha,” he said slowly. “I’ll grab some ice cream from the freezer and I’ll go.”
I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. I lay there staring at the ceiling. At the silent rise and fall of Michael’s chest beside me. I felt like I was losing something I couldn’t name.
A woman lying in bed | Source: Midjourney
I knew Abby didn’t want my family— they were hers, after all. But she was… disconcerting . And I couldn’t understand it. I was attached to my husband, of course. My daughters were my whole universe.
But why was Abby trying to mirror me? Why did she want to be me? Did she think she’d find her own version of a loving man? I could understand her wanting someone with the same qualities as Michael.
He was as kind, generous, and caring as anyone. Even more so for Abby since her father passed away…
A smiling man sitting on a sofa | Source: Midjourney
I knew it was wrong. But I did it anyway.
I entered the guest room. I opened the drawers slowly. I looked under the bed.
And then I found her.
A shoe box stuffed into the closet, under one of his suitcases.
The inside of a closet | Source: Midjourney
Inside were photos of me. Some were clearly taken from behind. There were photocopied pages from my diary. There was a list.
And a page of repeated statements:
“Be her. Be better. Be happy. Be successful. Be her. Be better. Be happy. Be successful.”
Written over and over again.
A woman’s rear view | Source: Midjourney
“What the hell is this?” I muttered.
And then things got worse. At the bottom of the shoebox was an old letter. It was folded, yellowed, and frayed at the edges.
It was dated almost ten years ago. And it changed everything. My whole perception of Abby changed in that moment.
Yellowed paper on a bed | Source: Midjourney
“Dear Michael,
I stayed. You left. I quit college for you. I quit my friend Sasha for you. I came home so Dad wouldn’t have to die alone. So Mom wouldn’t collapse in a heap on the Persian rug in the living room.
You got your dorm. You got your freedom. You fell in love with my classmate before we even became best friends.
I got a part-time job at a spa and started going gray at twenty-five. I met Jared, and he seemed to distract me from my life. It was… not much. But it seemed like it was enough.
The exterior of a university building | Source: Midjourney
I was supposed to have what you have. I was supposed to have the life Sasha has. The career. The house. The man who notices when you’re tired and rubs your feet.
I told myself I didn’t need it. That I needed it more because he sent us money when we paid for his private lessons. But I lied.
Watching your life now… watching Sasha… it’s like looking through a window into a life I almost lived. And I can’t stop holding onto the handle.
A young woman writing a letter | Source: Midjourney
You just announced your engagement, and I should be happy for you both. You did it the right way. On the beach at sunset. What did I get? Jared putting a plastic ring on me behind a fast food joint.
Why did I sell myself so cheaply? Why did I let my life slip away?
-TO”
I sat up in bed, shaking. It wasn’t just an obsession. Abby wasn’t obsessed with me. She was grieving for a lifetime I hadn’t even thought about.
A woman sitting on a bed, looking thoughtful | Source: Midjourney
And that broke my heart.
I hadn’t thought about our college days in years. But after reading that letter, it hit me like a punch in the chest.
We weren’t best friends. But we shared a few classes, Women in Literature , a brutal 8 a.m. Statistics class, and a mutual love of pretentious coffee shops.
Abby was a year ahead of me, smart and quietly funny, always scribbling poems or doodling in the margins of her notes. I liked her. I really did.
The inside of a coffee shop | Source: Midjourney
He introduced me to Michael one rainy October afternoon outside the library. He was visiting for the weekend, two years younger, a little shy, with a lazy smile that unnerved me in every way.
“This is my little brother, Michael,” Abby had said, rolling her eyes but smiling as if he meant everything to her. “He thinks he’s too cool to study.”
I remember exactly what she was wearing that day. A huge sweater and leather boots. She looked tired, but I didn’t ask her why.
A woman standing outside | Source: Midjourney
I fell in love with Michael quickly. It was intense, magnetic, the kind of first love that consumes everything and drowns out everything else. We spent weekends wrapped up in each other. Abby started disappearing from campus events after our classes.
By winter break, I had completely dropped out.
I never called her.
I told myself it was none of my business. That I probably needed space. But now, reading your words… I quit college for you. I quit my friend Sasha for you … I realized I wasn’t disappearing. I was falling. And I didn’t realize it.
Close-up of a thoughtful woman | Source: Midjourney
I was so caught up in what I was gaining , that I never wondered what she was losing.
Maybe I could have called her. Visited her. Texted her, for God’s sake… I could have offered her comfort, even just a cup of coffee and a place to talk.
But I didn’t.
A cup of coffee on a table | Source: Midjourney
And now, years later, I’d returned to my space. As I should have, not just for a visit. Not to reconnect. But to reclaim something I didn’t even know I’d given up.
Did Michael know all this? Had Abby sent him that letter? I was… confused. I slipped down the hall to the living room. Michael’s iPad was on the coffee table.
“I’d better find out everything…” I muttered to myself.
I took it, entered the password, and opened his email inbox.
An iPad on a small table | Source: Midjourney
I wasn’t proud of it. But now I was obsessed.
First, I searched for Abby’s name. There were only a few links to cars she was interested in buying. Nothing more.
Then I looked for Carol , her mother.
The most recent email was a photo of the girls. The previous one nearly stopped my heart.
Two smiling girls | Source: Midjourney
“Please don’t let her stay there, Michael. You know how she gets when she doesn’t feel in control. She clings. And Sasha won’t understand. You’ve never explained Abby to Sasha.
You’re not a child anymore, Michael. Abby needs to come clean. I know she’s grieving for her marriage, but you don’t have to rescue her.”
Dated two weeks before Abby moved out.
I stared at the screen, frozen. So Michael knew. His mother knew. And neither of them said a word to me. Not even when Abby started dressing like me. I closed my email, put the iPad back on the desk, and walked out of the room, my chest on fire.
A woman standing in a living room with a worried look | Source: Midjourney
The next morning, I sent the girls to school with their favorite chicken and mayonnaise sandwiches. I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I spent hours preparing their lunch.
I pushed Michael aside.
“I found the box,” I said, pouring him a cup of coffee.
“What box, love?”
“The one with my diary pages. And the photos. And a letter from Abby… to you. An old letter.”
Sandwiches on a kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney
His face paled.
“You knew,” I said, my voice low. “You knew Abby wasn’t okay!”
“It was years ago, Sasha,” he swallowed. “I didn’t think… She forgot that letter years ago.”
“What about your mother’s email?”
“I was alone, Sasha,” she said, rubbing her face. “I didn’t think she’d vent. I felt bad. She sacrificed a lot for me.”
A man leaning on a kitchen counter | Source: Midjourney
Abby announced she was leaving the next day. We were left alone in the kitchen. She looked freshly washed, her hair curly, and her face serene.
“I realized this life isn’t mine,” he said. “And it never was.”
He turned around and left without saying goodbye.
But I still couldn’t bear it. I was worried. Abby was suffering. Even drowning.
A woman standing in a kitchen | Source: Midjourney
A few days later, Abby met me at a coffee shop down the street. The one with the mismatched cups and the sunlight that always seemed warmer than it looked.
She looked different. Less polished. More real. Her hair was tied back in a loose ponytail. She wasn’t wearing any makeup.
“I wasn’t sure you were coming,” I said. “But I want you to know that I’ve read the letter. The one you wrote to Michael.”
We sat in silence for a moment. The hum of soft jazz, the clink of ceramics. And then…
The inside of a coffee shop | Source: Midjourney
“I know,” she confessed. “Michael told me. He told me everything. I’m so sorry, Sasha. Not just for everything I did, but for… the way I made you feel in your own home. I can’t imagine what that must have been like.”
I didn’t speak.
“I didn’t mean to become you,” she continued. “I wasn’t trying to steal you. I just… I’ve lost so many versions of myself over the years. And when I saw your life, it was like looking through a window into a house where the lights were always on. Warm. Whole.”
He swallowed and looked at the brownie in front of him.
A brownie in a cafe | Source: Midjourney
“I didn’t want to take anything away from you, Sasha,” he said. “I just wanted to feel what it was like to be okay. Even if it was just for a minute.”
I blinked. A lump formed in my throat. My heart went out to Abby.
“I want to be a mother, Sash,” she said suddenly. “More than anything. But I missed my moment. I spent years trying to make something out of nothing. And now I’m divorced, 37, and starting over. And it’s terrifying.”
A thoughtful woman sitting in a cafe | Source: Midjourney
I held out my hand to her. She looked surprised.
“You need help, Abby,” I said gently. “Not judgment. Not shame. Not pity. You need someone to help you deal with this. It starts with grieving and accepting your father’s death.”
His eyes watered.
“I know a therapist. She’s caring, smart, and good with messes,” I chuckled. “I had postpartum depression after Ella. She helped save me.”
A woman sitting in a cafe | Source: Midjourney
He nodded and wiped a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.
“Do you hate me?” he asked, taking a napkin.
“I don’t hate you,” I added softly. “I was scared and confused. I didn’t know what was happening.”
“He hated me enough for both of us,” she said with a sad smile.
A woman sitting at a table with her eyes closed | Source: Midjourney
That night I sat alone in my bedroom. I could hear Michael and the girls watching a movie.
I picked up my phone and opened a message thread with Abby.
“Cordelia’s address and number, as promised. She helped me find my balance once. I think you could use it too.”
A few minutes passed.
A mobile phone on a bed | Source: Midjourney
“Thanks, S. I’ll make an appointment. I’m nervous, but hopeful.”
I put down my phone and looked around the room. I had so much stuff. Somewhere, Abby was starting over. Not as a shadow, but as herself.
And me? I’m still here. I’m still Sasha. I’m still whole.
A smiling woman outdoors | Source: Midjourney
If you liked this story, here’s another one for you.
When Margaret loses her husband to Alzheimer’s, she discovers 30 love letters he wrote before he forgot her name. Reading them, memory becomes her lifeline. Through recipes, music, and her granddaughter’s laughter, she learns to move forward, one bittersweet note at a time.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental and not the author’s intention.
The author and publisher do not guarantee the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters, and are not responsible for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and the opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
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