The Woman Who Wanted My Life Was Already in My House

When Sasha's newly divorced sister-in-law moves in, she expects healing, not mimicry. But as Abby begins to dress like her, speak like her, and slip deeper into her family's rhythm, Sasha realizes that she's not hosting a guest, she's housing a woman who's trying to reclaim a life that was never hers.

She arrived with three suitcases, a bottle of red wine, and a hollowed-out smile.

Abby, my sister-in-law, was freshly divorced. My husband, Michael, didn't even blink before inviting her to stay.

"Just for a little while," he said, already pulling out the air mattress. "She needs somewhere to land, Sasha. I don't know what she's been going through..."

"Fine," I agreed. "The air mattress will have to do for now. I'll clear out the guest room tomorrow. I'll change the bedding and all of that."

"Thank you, love," Michael said. "I don't know what else to do. I don't know how else to help her. She's... my responsibility since our father died."

"I know," I replied. "I get it. We need to tell the girls that Abby is coming."

I cleared out the guest room. I fluffed pillows. Dusted the curtains. Picked up all the toys the kids had thrown around the room. I set a vase of flowers on the windowsill.

And all the while I pretended like I didn't feel the walls tightening.

What I didn't know was that I was about to be replaced in my own life.

The first week was fine. I worked from home, so it was easy to escape into my home office while Abby did her own thing. She had taken a break from work, too.

"May as well use my vacation days, huh?" she laughed, pouring a glass of wine for herself.

She played board games with Lily. Sketched and colored fairies with Ella. Abby even cooked a few meals. She complimented my leggings and my dreamcatcher tattoo. She asked for skincare tips.

I watched her float around the house like a ghost with good intentions.

I told myself that I was being too sensitive. That Abby was just getting comfortable, and honestly? It wasn't so bad. This was her brother's home, it was her nieces' home. Maybe she really did need it.

But then I walked into the kitchen one morning and she was wearing my robe.

"It was just hanging in the laundry room," she said, smiling. "I didn't think you'd mind, Sasha."

That was the first flicker of something darker. Something that I couldn't pinpoint. Something that I couldn't name.

After a little while, Abby started watching me. Not just passively but actually studying me.

My routines. My tone of voice. The way I packed the girls' lunches and set out their clothes.

She'd mirror me, a beat too late, but still almost the same. It was like she was trying on a new personality to see how it fit.

Then came the lasagne. My recipe, of course, right down to the basil from the garden. Only hers was better. My husband raved about it, joking that I'd been officially replaced as the house cook.

I laughed tightly. That night, she tucked the girls into bed and read them my favorite story. They didn't ask for me once.

I stood in the hallway, feeling like a guest in my own home.

And do you know what? It got even stranger.

Abby joined my yoga studio and bought the same leggings I wore to the class. She bought my exact perfume. She ordered the same phone case. Sometimes I'd catch her standing in the hallway mirror, adjusting her hair to look just like mine.

It would've been laughable if it didn't feel like a slow erasure.

"Stop it, Sasha," I told myself in the mirror one day. "She needs the help. She needs family. You're irreplaceable here. This is your home."

But if those affirmations were true... then why did I feel a constant pit of dread in my stomach?

Then, one night, Ella called Abby "Mom" by mistake.

"Sorry, Mommy," she grinned, putting her hand over her mouth. "It slipped out."

I smiled at my daughter and gave her another piece of garlic bread.

"That's cute," Michael chuckled. "But aunts are like second moms, aren't they? Dad would be proud of how you're handling... everything, Abs."

She beamed at her brother from across the table, adding more asparagus to her plate.

"Thanks, Michael," she said. "It's been really difficult, but I'm grateful that I have you and Sasha and the girls to keep me going. I appreciate you all."

I didn't speak for the rest of dinner.

Week two rolled around and I tried to speak to my husband about my thoughts, my feelings, and my insecurities which were running wild in my head.

"She's admiring you, love," he said, sipping his beer. "Come on, Sash, she's just trying to rebuild her life. I highly doubt she knows who she is without Jared. Let her borrow a little confidence from you. Maybe it will help her cope."

"She's not borrowing it, Michael," I snapped. "She's becoming me! Or trying to anyway."

"She's broken, Sasha," he sighed. "She's been through a lot... have some compassion."

I stood there, blinking. My husband had invited a ticking bomb into our home and told me to be nice while it counted down.

I began to unravel in silence. My jaw ached from clenching so tightly all the time. I began to check locks... making sure that my jewelry was safe. It was extreme but it was necessary. Or so I thought.

I started keeping a list on my phone: the perfume, the boots, the night she laughed exactly like me at a joke Ella made.

The longer she stayed, the longer the list grew.

One evening, I came home late from a parent-teacher meeting at the girls' school and I found Abby in the living room, flipping through our wedding album.

My pajamas. My wine glass. My couch.

"You looked so happy, Sasha," she said without looking up.

"That's because I was," I replied. "It truly was the best day of my life."

"I never got that," she smiled. "With Jared, I mean. I think I convinced myself that watching love was the same as having it."

I sat down across from her, wary. This was the first time that she had openly spoken about her marriage. Maybe we were getting somewhere? Maybe Michael had been right, and she was just processing her feelings?

"I used to think that I'd be okay 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 the bare minimum. And you had it all. Like it just... arrived."

If I were Abby, I would have probably cried. I would have probably been upset by my own confession. It would have forced me to feel my feelings. But she wasn't crying. And for some reason, that scared me more.

A few nights later, my sleep broke, calling for a mug of warm milk, cinnamon and honey. I tiptoed to the kitchen, careful not to wake the girls. Ella was notorious for waking up and helping herself to the cookie jar or the chocolate container.

Instead of finding the house at rest, I found the light to my office on. Abby sitting on the couch, my journal open. Pages bookmarked.

"Abby?" I called out. "What's going on?"

"You really don't lock this?" she replied. "Your journal. Why wouldn't you? It's so... personal."

Duh, Sherlock, I thought to myself as my stomach twisted.

"What are you doing?" I asked simply, keeping my voice level.

"I wanted to know how you worked, Sash," she said, as if this were perfectly normal. "I wanted to know how you think. You're always so... certain. Of everything. I want to be like that."

I stared at her. I had enough thoughts but I had no words to let them out.

"Sasha," she said, sighing. "You're the version of me that never had to choose."

"What the hell does that mean?"

She didn't answer. Instead, she touched the stuffed cat that I kept on my desk. It was an old teddy that I had adored since I was a teenager. Wherever I moved, old Tibbles came with me.

"I remember this," she said. "Tibbles, huh?"

I nodded. I wanted to be livid but I didn't quite know how... Abby was behaving like she was unhinged. But I felt sorry for her. Disturbed, of course. But sorry nonetheless.

"I'm going for a walk," she said. "Do you want to come with me?"

"Abby, look at the time. I'm good. But you go, there's security patrolling the area, so you'll be safe. Take a key."

She smiled and nodded.

"I will, Sasha," she said slowly. "I'm going to grab an ice cream from the freezer and I'll be off."

I went back to bed but I couldn't sleep. I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. At the quiet rise and fall of Michael's chest beside me. I felt like I was losing something I couldn't name.

Look, I knew that Abby didn't want my family, they were hers after all. But she was... unnerving. And I couldn't understand it. I was close to my husband, sure. My girls were my entire universe.

But why was Abby trying to mirror me? Why did she want to be me? Did she think that she'd find her own version of a loving man? I could understand why she'd want someone with the same qualities as Michael.

He was as kind, generous, and loving as they came. More so to Abby since their father passed...

I knew it was wrong. But I did it anyway.

I went into the guest room. I opened drawers slowly. I checked under the bed.

And then I found it.

A shoebox tucked in the closet, beneath one of her bags.

Inside, there were photos of me. Some were clearly taken from behind. There were photocopied pages from my journal. There was a list.

And a page of repeated affirmations:

"Be her. Be better. Be happy. Be successful. Be her. Be better. Be happy. Be successful."

Written over and over and over again.

"What the actual hell is this?" I muttered.

And then it 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 entire perception of Abby changed in that moment.

"Dear Michael,

I stayed behind. You left. I gave up university for you. I gave up my friend, Sasha, for you. I came home so that Dad wouldn't have to die alone. So that Mom wouldn't collapse into a heap on the Persian carpet in the living room.

You got your dorm. You got your freedom. You fell in love with my classmate before we got to be better friends.

I got a part-time job at a spa and gray roots by twenty-five. I met Jared and he seemed to distract me from my life. It was... little. But it seemed like it was enough.

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 you needed it more because you sent money to us when you got paid for tutoring. But I lied.

Watching your life now... watching Sasha... it's like I'm staring through a window into a life I almost lived. And I can't stop reaching for the handle.

You just announced your engagement, and I should be happy for the two of you. You did it the right way. At the beach at sunset. What did I get? Jared slipping on a plastic ring behind a fast-food joint.

Why did I sell myself short? Why did I let my life go?

-A"

I sat on the bed, shaking. This wasn't just obsession. Abby wasn't obsessed with me. She was grieving an entire life that I hadn't even thought about.

And that broke my heart.

I hadn't thought about our time in college in years. But after reading that letter, it hit me like a punch to the chest.

We weren't best friends. But we shared a few classes, Women in Literature, a brutal 8 A.M. Statistics course, 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.

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."

"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 addresss 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.

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When Margaret loses her husband to Alzheimer's, she discovers 30 love letters he wrote before forgetting her name. As she reads them, memory becomes her lifeline. Through recipes, music, and their granddaughter's laughter, she learns how to carry him forward, one bittersweet note at a time.

This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided "as is," and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.