“I used to.”

“You once killed a cactus.”

Her mouth twitched. Then I saw the photographs. Clara laughing at dinner. Clara kneeling beside a garden. Clara standing beside people I had never seen before. There wasn’t a single photo of me.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Three years.”

“And before that?”

“Farther away.”

I turned toward her.

“Start with the crash.”

Clara sat down.

“I was thrown from the car before it caught fire. Apparently, I wandered after the accident. Another driver found me miles away near a different road.”

“You had no identification?”

“Nothing.”

“And your memory?”

“Almost completely gone.”

She rubbed the silver ring.

“I knew how to use a spoon before I knew my last name.”

I said nothing.

“My first name came back earlier than everything else. But knowing I was Clara didn’t tell me where Clara belonged.”

Memories returned gradually. Fragments. Mom’s yellow kitchen. My voice. Childhood places. Pieces of herself. Then I asked the question I had been avoiding.

“When did you remember me?”

Clara looked away.

“Sarah…”

“How long ago?”

“Please.”

“How long, Clara?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Six years.”

I stared at her.

“Six years?”

She nodded.

“You knew who I was six years ago?”

“Yes.”

“You knew I thought you were dead?”

“Yes.”

My hands started trembling.

“Did you call?”

“I tried once.”

“Once?”

“I found Mom and Dad’s old number, but it had been disconnected.”

“And then you just gave up?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I wrote letters.”

My chest tightened.

“Did you send them?”

She lowered her eyes.

“No.”

I grabbed my purse.

“Then those letters weren’t for us, Clara. They were for you.”

She flinched.

“Sarah, please.”

I reached the door.

“I can explain.”

“You had six years to explain.”

Then I walked out. I didn’t tell Mom and Dad that evening. That was one decision Clara wasn’t going to make for me. She had controlled enough of the truth already. That night, I opened a kitchen drawer and found the two blue mugs. One for me. One “spare.” And I suddenly realized I had been buying things in pairs for ten years because some part of me had never completely accepted being alone.

The next morning, I called Mom.

“Are you sitting down?”

“Sarah, you know I hate when you start conversations like that.”

“Please, Mom.”

Her voice changed.

“Okay.”

I closed my eyes.

“Clara is alive.”

Nothing. Not even breathing. Then Mom whispered,

“Sweetheart…”

“I saw her.”

Another silence.

“She remembers things nobody else could know. The moon in my bedroom wall. Dad’s vase. It’s really her.”

Dad came onto the phone. He didn’t ask where Clara was. He didn’t demand proof. He simply said,

“What do you need from us?”

That nearly broke me.

“I don’t know.”

“Then we’ll start with that.”

Two days later, I drove my parents to Clara’s apartment. Mom stopped as soon as we entered. Clara was standing near the window. For several seconds, nobody moved. Then Mom crossed the room.

“My baby.”

Clara stiffened. Then she collapsed into her arms. Dad stayed several feet away, wiping his eyes.

“Hey, kiddo.”

I turned my face away. I loved Clara. I was furious with Clara. Both emotions existed at the same time. After everyone calmed down, Mom started talking quickly, desperate to rebuild ten lost years in a few minutes.

“I still make that cherry pie you always loved. Your old room isn’t blue anymore, but we could paint it again. Remember the song you girls used to sing?”

The mug in Clara’s hand slipped onto the counter.

“Stop.”

Mom froze.

“Clara?”

“Please stop.”

Mom looked confused.

“I was only—”

“I can’t do this!”

The room became silent. Clara pressed both hands over her face. Then she looked at us.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to come back.”

Mom’s expression collapsed.

“Because I mentioned pie?”

“No, Mom.”

Clara’s voice shook.

“Because five minutes after seeing me, you’re already trying to rebuild the girl I used to be.”

“I thought familiar things would help.”

“I don’t even like cherry pie anymore.”

Mom stared at her.

“But Sarah always loved it too. You girls liked all the same things.”

Clara gave a short, bitter laugh.

“There.”

She pointed toward Mom.

“That. Exactly that.”

Something cold moved through me.

“What are you talking about?”

Clara turned toward me.

“Growing up, everything was Sarah and Clara.”

I frowned.

“You got a better grade, people compared us. You made a team, people asked why I didn’t. You won something, everyone looked at me like I was the defective version.”

“I never asked anyone to do that.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like this was my fault?”

“Because you never had to think about it.”

Her voice cracked.

“You walked into a room and got to be Sarah. I walked into the same room and became Sarah’s twin.”

Mom started crying.

“I never knew you felt that way.”

“Neither did I completely.”

Clara gripped the edge of the counter.

“Not until after the accident.”

At first, losing her memory had terrified her. But later, something unexpected happened. For the first time in Clara’s life, nobody compared her to me. Nobody asked where her twin was. Nobody mentioned what Sarah liked or how Sarah performed. She began discovering things simply because she enjoyed them. Gardening. Different foods. New friends. A life that didn’t contain me as a reference point.

I stared at her.

“So when you remembered us, you decided to stay gone.”

“At first, I was scared.”

“And afterward?”

Clara swallowed.

“Afterward…I chose myself.”

I took a step back.

“You chose yourself by letting us bury you?”

“I know how terrible that sounds.”

“It sounds terrible because it was terrible.”

She nodded.

“I know.”

Mom reached toward her. Clara instinctively pulled away.

“I loved you all,” she whispered. “But I was terrified that if I came back, I’d stop being Clara again.”

I stared at her.

“And the price for becoming Clara was letting me spend ten years believing my sister was dead?”

She wiped her cheeks.

“I looked you up four years ago.”