I’m Sasha, and when Abby, my husband Michael’s sister, showed up with suitcases and wine, I thought she needed a soft place to land after her divorce. Michael welcomed her in without asking me, promising it’d be temporary. I didn’t expect her to start copying my every move.
She settled in fast, sleeping on an air mattress until I fixed up the guest room with fresh sheets and flowers. “She’s my responsibility now,” Michael said, and I nodded, figuring family helps family. But soon, I felt a strange squeeze in my chest.
At first, it was fine—Abby played with my girls, Lily and Ella, and cooked a bit. She admired my style, my tattoo, even my skincare tricks. I worked from home, hiding in my office while she floated around, sipping wine and laughing.
Then one morning, she wore my robe, claiming it was just there in the laundry room. I brushed it off, but a chill crept in. She started mimicking me—my voice, my routines, how I packed the girls’ lunches.
She made my lasagna recipe, only better, and Michael couldn’t stop praising it. That night, she read my girls their bedtime story—my story—and they didn’t call for me. I stood in the hall, a stranger in my own house.
Abby joined my yoga class, bought my leggings, my perfume, even my phone case. I’d catch her in the mirror, fixing her hair like mine. It was creepy, like she was erasing me bit by bit.
“Am I overreacting?” I asked my reflection one day. Michael shrugged it off when I told him, “She’s just lost—she’s borrowing your strength.” But it felt like more than that.
One night, Ella slipped and called Abby “Mom,” giggling it off. Michael laughed, “Aunts are like second moms!” Abby glowed, and I stayed quiet, my stomach in knots.
I tried talking to Michael again. “She’s not borrowing—she’s taking!” I snapped. He sighed, “She’s broken, Sasha—give her a break.” I felt alone, watching her slip deeper into my life.
I grew paranoid—checking locks, guarding my things. I started a list: her copying my laugh, my boots, everything. It was wild, but I couldn’t stop.
One evening, I found her with our wedding album, in my pajamas, sipping from my glass. “You looked so happy,” she said wistfully. “I never had that.” I sat, unsure—maybe she was opening up?
Later, I caught her in my office at night, reading my journal. “I want to know how you’re so sure,” she said calmly. I froze—she wasn’t just lost; she was unhinged.
“I’m going for a walk,” she said, grabbing ice cream and leaving. I couldn’t sleep, rattled by her words. Then I snooped in her room and found a shoebox.
Photos of me, journal pages, a list—“Be her, be better”—over and over. A letter to Michael from years ago spilled her truth: she’d given up college for him, envying my life. My heart sank—she wasn’t stealing; she was mourning.
I checked Michael’s iPad—his mom had warned him about Abby’s clinging. He’d known and said nothing. Anger flared, but so did pity.
Next day, I confronted him. “You knew she was fragile!” He admitted, “I felt guilty—she sacrificed for me.” Abby left soon after, saying, “This isn’t my life.”
We met at a coffee shop days later. “I read your letter,” I said. She apologized, raw and real, “I just wanted to feel okay.” I offered her a therapist’s number—someone who’d helped me once.
She texted later, “I’m nervous but hopeful.” I smiled, whole again, knowing she’d find her own way—not mine.
