It began with a bouquet—red roses, white lilies, and baby’s breath, fragrant and unexpected. I was in the kitchen peeling apples for Tom’s favorite pie when the doorbell rang. A flower delivery.
“For Lena,” the delivery guy said, “from a secret admirer.”
Before I could react, Grace—my twin—peeked over my shoulder, intrigued. She had been staying with us, needing a break from city life. I read the card, but didn’t recognize the name. Politely, I sent the flowers back.
Grace was baffled. “You’re turning that down? What if he’s rich and charming?”
I just smiled. “I’ve already got someone who makes me coffee and fixes faucets.”
Grace scoffed, but I saw something flicker in her—envy, maybe. Later, she stood by the window, quiet. “Doesn’t it ever feel small?”
“No,” I said. “It feels steady. Real.”
She left the next morning with a lingering hug and a quiet, “You’ve got a lucky life.”
Weeks passed in our usual rhythm—me and Tom, soup and laundry, small joys. Then one day, a fancy envelope arrived. My name on it. A wedding invitation… with me listed as the bride.
But I was already married.
At the venue, I arrived early, heart pounding. Everything was perfect—white chairs, rose petals, a harp. And under the arch, I saw her. Grace. In a wedding gown.
She spotted me and froze. “Lena—what are you doing here?”
“You’re marrying someone using my name?”
She panicked, begged me not to make a scene. The groom, Wesley, approached, smiling. She introduced me as “Grace.”
I didn’t need to say anything. I already understood—Grace had tried to live as me.
Minutes before the ceremony, she broke. “He saw your photo. I said I was you… just for a moment. But he believed it. And I didn’t want to lose him.”
“You don’t have to be me to be loved,” I told her. “Let him choose the real you.”
Her eyes welled. “What if he doesn’t?”
“Then at least it won’t be a lie.”
As the music swelled, she stepped forward, trembling, and stopped the ceremony.
“My name is Grace,” she said. “I lied. I said I was Lena—my sister. But I can’t keep pretending.”
Gasps filled the air. Wesley’s face fell. Then softened.
“Then let’s start over,” he said.
Later, in the garden, barefoot and glowing, Grace whispered, “It feels better being me.”
“It always will,” I said.
Maybe their love would grow. Maybe not. But now, it had a true beginning.
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