“I changed.”
I looked at the photographs.
There was not one of me.
Not one of our parents.
“How long have you had this life?”
“Different versions of it.”
“Rehabilitation first.”
“Supported housing.”
“Then work.”
“Then this apartment.”
I turned.
“Start from the beginning.”
She sat.
The story came in fragments.
After the crash, a passing driver found Lily far from Blackwood Highway.
She had suffered a serious head injury.
For months, she could not provide a reliable surname.
Her first name surfaced early.
Then ordinary skills returned faster than personal memories.
She could read.
Cook basic food.
Use money.
But family remained fog.
She eventually entered a rehabilitation program.
Years passed.
Memories came unpredictably.
A smell.
A song.
A phrase.
A yellow kitchen.
Our father’s hands.
My voice.
Then, six years before the dental clinic call, she remembered enough to understand that she had once had a twin sister named Claire Bennett.
