Chapter 1The Lies We Are

It was my son Bobby’s third birthday, and my mother-in-law, a few glasses of wine in, wouldn’t stop fussing over him.

She pinched Bobby’s chubby cheeks, her words slurring as she spoke to my husband, Mark. "This boy… it's uncanny."

"He has your eyebrows, your eyes… but his nose, his mouth…"

She paused, squinting at my sister, Chloe, who was sitting beside me, quietly peeling an apple.

"His nose and mouth," she declared loudly, "they're the spitting image of Chloe!"

The air in the room instantly froze.

The only sound was the cheerful din of cartoons playing on the TV.

Chloe’s hand jerked, the paring knife slicing into her finger.

Mark's face went rigid, the color draining from it in an instant. He shot up from his seat, his voice sharp. "Mom! You're drunk, stop talking nonsense!"

I sat on the sofa, watching the scene unfold, and smiled.

"She's not wrong, though."

I tilted my head, my gaze shifting between my ashen-faced sister and my panicked husband.

"I've always wondered why Bobby looks so much like his aunt."

* * *

Mark’s reaction was more violent than I’d anticipated.

He practically dove across the room to snatch Bobby from his mother’s arms, as if terrified I might look at our son for a second longer.

"Don't listen to her, Grace. She’s getting old, her eyes are playing tricks on her."

He kept his back to me, his voice strained. He didn't dare meet my gaze.

Chloe scrambled to her feet, forcing a smile that was more painful than a grimace. "Grace, she was just kidding. Kids change every day, you can't really tell who they look like."

Can't you?

The seed of a doubt I had buried three years ago, a terrible thought I never dared to examine, burst into venomous bloom.

I had carried Bobby for ten months. I had nearly died giving birth to him. He was my son.

But from the day he was born, he never looked like me.

Everyone said he just took after his father.

And I had lied to myself, believing them.

But as he grew, as his features sharpened, the shadow of Chloe on his small face became impossible to ignore. The same almond-shaped eyes. The same dimple in the same spot when he smiled. Even the way his lips pouted slightly in his sleep was a perfect mirror of my sister.

I had told myself it was just the magic of shared blood. We were sisters, after all.

But today, my mother-in-law’s drunken words had ripped away the comforting lie I’d wrapped myself in.

"Alright, everyone, calm down."

I stood up calmly, pulled a tissue from the coffee table, and walked over to Chloe. I took her hand, which was still bleeding, and gently pressed the tissue against the cut.

"You have to be more careful." My voice was soft, but my eyes were fixed on her pale, stricken face.

She couldn't look at me. "I… I'm fine, Grace," she stammered.

Mark stood frozen, clutching our son.

I smiled and turned to him. "Dinner's ready. Why don't you take Bobby to wash his hands?"

My voice was so normal, so utterly untroubled, it was as if the last five minutes had been a hallucination. Mark looked like a man granted a pardon. He fled to the bathroom with the child.

The atmosphere at the dinner table was suffocating. My mother-in-law, apparently realizing her mistake, ate with her head down, silent.

I was the only one who acted as if nothing had happened. I served Bobby his favorite vegetables, ladled soup for Mark, and even made cheerful conversation with Chloe about her job.

The calmer I was, the more haunted they looked.

The meal was an exercise in torture.

Afterward, Mark insisted on doing the dishes, and Chloe announced she had an urgent work matter, hastily getting ready to leave.

"Wait a second."

I called out to her.

She froze in the entryway, her body stiff.

I went to the fridge, took out a container of fresh cherries I’d bought that afternoon, and poured them into a large bag for her. "Here, for the road. I know they're your favorite."

Her hand trembled as she took the bag. She wouldn't look up. "Thanks, Grace."

"Don't be silly." I reached out and smoothed a stray strand of her hair, blown messy by the wind. I leaned in close, my lips next to her ear, and whispered in a voice only she could hear:

"Chloe, next time you come over, don't wear that perfume."

"Bobby's allergic to it. Did you forget?"

A violent tremor shot through her body. Her pupils dilated in sheer terror.

I stepped back, patting her shoulder with a serene smile. "Drive safe."

The moment the door clicked shut, the smile vanished from my face.

The sound of running water came from the kitchen. Mark was at the sink, his broad back turned to me. A back that had once been my greatest source of comfort.

I watched him for a moment, then spoke.

"Mark."

He stopped moving.

"Do you remember when I was in labor with Bobby? I was hemorrhaging. The doctors told you I might not make it."

He didn't turn around. His voice was muffled. "I remember."

"I was lying in that hospital bed, thinking I was going to die. I held your hand. Do you remember what I said to you?"

His shoulders began to tremble.

I continued, my voice flat and empty. "I said, if I die, you have to raise Bobby well. He's our son. I'm giving my life for him…"

"Stop it!"

He spun around, his face a mask of anguish, his eyes bloodshot. "You weren't going to die! We were going to be fine, our family!"

I looked at him and, suddenly, I laughed.

"Mark," I asked, each word deliberate and sharp, "is there something you've been hiding from me?"