The Woman Who Wanted My Life Was Already in My House(2/2)

I really did. She 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 made me nervous in all the right ways.

“This is my little brother, Michael,” Abby had said, rolling her eyes but smiling like he meant the world to her. “He thinks he’s too cool for school.”

I remember the exact outfit she wore that day. An oversized sweater and leather boots.

She looked tired but I didn’t ask why. I fell for Michael fast. It was intense, magnetic, the kind of all-consuming first love that drowns everything else.

We spent weekends wrapped up in each other. Abby started disappearing from campus events, then from our classes. By winter break, she’d dropped out completely.

I never called. I told myself it wasn’t my business. That she probably needed space.

But now, reading her words… I gave up university for you. I gave up my friend, Sasha, for you… I realized she wasn’t disappearing. She was falling.

And I didn’t notice. I was so caught up in what I was gaining, I never asked what she was losing. Maybe I could’ve called her.

Visited. Sent a text message, for goodness’ sake… I could’ve offered comfort, even just a cup of coffee and a place to talk. But I didn’t.

And now, years later, she’d come back into my space. Properly, not just to visit. Not to reconnect.

But to reclaim something I didn’t even know she’d given up. Did Michael know about all of this? Had Abby sent him that letter?

I was… confused. I slipped down the hallway to the living room. Michael’s iPad was on the coffee table.

“May as well find out everything…” I muttered to myself. I picked it up, entered the password, and opened his email inbox. I wasn’t proud of it.

But I was obsessing now. I searched Abby’s name first. There were just a few links to cars that she was interested in buying.

Nothing more. Then I searched Carol, their mother. The most recent email was a photo of the girls.

The one before that nearly stopped my heart. “Please don’t let her stay here, Michael. You know how she gets when she doesn’t feel in control.

She clings. And Sasha won’t understand it. You’ve never explained Abby to Sasha.

You’re not a kid anymore, Michael. Abby needs to sort herself out. I know she’s grieving her marriage but you don’t have to rescue her.”

Dated two weeks before Abby moved in.

I stared at the screen, cold all over. 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 the email, placed the iPad back on the desk, and walked out of the room with my chest on fire.

The next morning, I sent the girls to school with their favorite chicken and mayo sandwiches. I hadn’t been able to sleep, so I spent hours making their lunch. I pulled Michael aside.

“I found the box,” I said, pouring him a cup of coffee. “What box, love?”

“The one with pages from my journal. And the photos.

And a letter from Abby… to you. An old letter.”

His face paled. “You knew,” I said, my voice low.

“You knew that Abby wasn’t okay!”

“It was years ago, Sasha,” he swallowed. “I didn’t think… She took that letter back years ago.”

“And what about your mother’s email?”

“She was alone, Sasha,” he said, rubbing his face. “I didn’t think she’d unravel.

I felt bad. She sacrificed a lot for me.”

Abby announced that she was leaving the next day. We stood in the kitchen, just the two of us.

She looked freshly washed, hair curled, face serene. “I realized that this life isn’t mine,” she said. “And it never was.”

She turned and walked away without a goodbye.

I still couldn’t cope though. It troubled me. Abby was hurting.

Drowning, even. Abby met me at a coffee shop down the street a few days after. The one with the mismatched mugs and sunlight that always looked warmer than it felt.

She looked different. Less polished. More real.

Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail. No makeup. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I said.

“But I need you to know, I read the letter. The one you wrote to Michael.”

We sat in silence for a moment. The hum of soft jazz, the clink of ceramic.

And then…

“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’ve 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.”

She swallowed and looked at the brownie in front of her.

“I didn’t want to take anything from you, Sasha,” she said. “I just wanted to feel what it was like to be okay. Even for a minute.”

I blinked.

My throat tightened. My heart went out to Abby. “I want to be a mom, 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.”

I reached for her hand. She looked surprised.

“You need help, Abby,” I said gently. “Not judgment. Not shame.

Not pity. You need someone who can help you carry this. It starts with the grief and acceptance of your dad’s death.”

Her eyes welled up.

“I know a therapist. She’s warm, smart, and good with a mess,” I chuckled. “I had post-partum depression after Ella.

She helped save me back then.”

She nodded, brushing a tear off her cheek with the back of her hand. “Do you hate me?” she asked, reaching for a napkin. “I don’t hate you,” I added softly.

“I was scared and confused. I didn’t know what was happening.”

“I hated me enough for both of us,” she said with a sad smile. That night, I sat alone in my bedroom.

I could hear Michael and the girls watching a movie. I picked up my phone and tapped open a message thread with Abby. “Cordelia’s address and number, as promised.

She helped me find my footing once. I think she’d be good for you, too.”

A few minutes passed. “Thank you, S.

I’ll make an appointment. I’m nervous but hopeful.”

I set the phone down and looked around the room. I had so much.

Somewhere, Abby was starting over. Not as a shadow, but as herself. And me?

I’m still here. Still Sasha. Still whole.