A vase whizzed past my head, causing me to jump in shock.

"WHO ARE YOU?!" roared my husband, rushing up to pin me between his massive arms. I shrunk against the wall, terrified.

"What are you talking about? I'm your wife!" I cried, seeing fear and rage in his eyes, and something else. Something... unhinged.

"Are you? Because you changed after we got married. After your sister died. Y'know, I always thought it was weird that you didn't want me to meet her. But now, finding the picture? It all makes sense. You replaced her. You killed my Natalie, and you took her place." He removed one of his arms and dug around in his back pocket, pulling out a picture of my twin sister and I when we were teenagers; hugging, smiling, wearing intentionally ugly matching outfits.

"You... you think I'm Helen?" I gasped, my voice quivering and my knees shaking as I reached for the photo. I held it lovingly, anger growing in me as I knew he'd found the photo by rummaging through my things.

"I know you're Helen. Our daughter doesn't look at you the same way she used to. You don't smell the same way you used to. You stand different, walk different. You don't like your favorite foods anymore. Trauma can change a person a lot, Helen, but it can't do that." he was raving, ranting, beginning to pace throughout our living room.

"My sister, my Helen, died in another state, James! I wasn't anywhere near her that night! I was here, with you, planning OUR WEDDING DAY. Remember that? Lovely ceremony, about 3 years ago? And you're right, I have changed! And it's not just trauma!" I said, opening the hallway closet to grab a broom for the vase shards, "I wanted to do something, anything to keep my sister alive. So I started using her favorite beauty products, hence the smell change. I salvaged some of her favorite clothes and heels from the donation piles, thus my posture change. You walk different in stilettos than you do in flats, James. Corsets make you stand straighter, James. I've changed intentionally, to be more like Helen, to keep her alive in me."

I could see the gears turning in his head; logic was winning out. "But what about Ava?"

"She's SIX, James! She doesn't want to be glued at her mother's hip all day anymore! She wants to play with dolls and run around the backyard and eat fuckin' lip gloss!" I filled the dustpan and emptied out the shards into the trash, heartbeat racing.

Somewhere above us, I heard a shuffling and a thud. "Great, she was eavesdropping. I'll go soothe her while you sit down and think about what the hell you just said to me." I said, wiping my hands on my apron and walking upstairs.

"Ava, honey? Are you all right?" I said, knocking on her open door.

"Mommy, why is daddy so scary lately?" she hugged my waist, hiding herself in the folds of my skirt, "Is it because of the accident?"

"Yes, baby. It's because of the accident." I said, smoothing down her hair.

James used to ride a motorcycle every day. Used to. One day last year, he got t-boned by one of those little ice-cube shaped mini-cars. Flew 30 feet. The phone call I got from the hospital filled me with the kind of dread I'd only ever felt once before; when I was informed by my parents that my twin sister had been found shot in her local park while jogging, a casualty of a gang's civil war.

He was in a coma with severe brain swelling for a full month. And when he woke up, he was different. More aggressive, more paranoid. Gaps in his memory. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived. As I held my sobbing daughter in my arms, and faintly heard my husband booking a session with his therapist downstairs, I wondered if it was any miracle at all.