“You’re just as worthless as your mother, and if you open your mouth, I swear no one will believe you!”
When my identical twin sister appeared at my door in Phoenix with that phrase still trembling on her lips, I felt the air snag in my lungs. Our names were Gabrielle and Geneve, and ever since we were little girls, the world had failed to tell us apart.
We shared the same honey-brown hair, the same flint-gray eyes, and the same tiny jagged scar above our left eyebrows from a tumble off the swings in second grade. But that night, despite having my own face, the woman standing before me looked like a shattered version of what I might have become if life had slowly ground me into the dirt.
Her lip was split open and her right cheek was puffy and bruised. There were dark purple finger marks staining the skin of her arms, looking like shadows against her pale complexion.
Worse than the physical injuries was the way she kept glancing down the hallway behind her, acting as if a monster were chasing her through the corridor. “Please don’t tell Dad,” she whispered the second she stepped inside, her voice barely audible over the hum of the air conditioner.
I locked the door and guided her to the armchair, trying to keep my own hands from shaking as I poured her a glass of water. She was trembling so violently that the water sloshed over the rim, soaking her sleeves while she stared into space.
“What happened to you, Gen?” I asked softly, kneeling in front of her.
At first, she didn’t want to talk, opting instead to cry silently while hugging her knees as if she wanted to disappear into the upholstery. That silence terrified me more than the bruises because my sister had always been sensitive, but she had never been a coward.
After our parents’ messy divorce, I had stayed with my mom, eventually moving out to work at a local bakery while I finished my degree. Geneve had stayed with our father in a sprawling estate in Scottsdale, where he lived with his new wife, Francine.
Our father usually left the house before sunrise to manage a logistics firm and rarely returned before the sun went down. Francine stayed home, played the part of the devoted parishioner, smiled at the neighbors over the fence, and knew exactly how to fake a gentle soul.
“She checks my phone every single night,” my sister finally confessed without meeting my eyes. “She counts every calorie I eat and she even took the door off my hinges two months ago so I have no privacy.”
I felt my jaw tighten as I watched a tear roll down her swollen cheek. “If Dad is home, she’s the perfect stepmother, but the moment he leaves, she calls me a parasite and a waste of space.”
“Did she do this to you?” I asked, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
Geneve nodded, and then the floodgates opened as she described how Francine had pulled her hair and slammed her against the drywall. Once, she had slapped her so hard that Gen’s ear rang for forty-eight hours, and another time she was denied food because an ungrateful brat didn’t deserve to eat.
My sister had tried to talk to our father, but Francine would always start crying first, clinging to him and claiming Geneve was trying to sabotage their new family. “He told me I was trying to destroy his marriage,” my sister muttered, looking defeated. “And now he looks at me like I’m the villain in his story.”
I went to the bathroom so I wouldn’t lose my temper and break something in the living room. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and realized that for the first time, I didn’t just see myself; I saw Geneve’s pain looking back.
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