I’m hit with a heavy wave of sadness, and I’m not sure if it’s for my mom or for this person I’ve never met. “That’s awful,” I say, my voice coming out quiet.

She nods a tiny nod, more of a dip of her chin. “Phoebe has already booked our flights. We leave for the airport in an hour. Thank you so much, Willow.” Then she stands, sweeping the letter into her hand as she heads for the door.

“It’s nothing,” I say, but that isn’t true. My mom is the most organized, detail oriented, careful person on the planet, so the fact that she’s been hiding something as big as a twin is most certainly a something.

My mom has always been a giant mystery to me, and for the first time I’m realizing there’s a legitimate reason for that.

– 4 – Mason

The Morgans’ house is close to a large grassy park bordered by enormous old houses, and looking out over it makes my stomach tighten. Everywhere I look, there are families walking together: grandparents pushing strollers, dads with kids on their shoulders, teenagers walking with their parents, and big, goofy dogs on leashes. This is the kind of place where people grow up in generations, where you know exactly where you’ll sit at Thanksgiving dinner and who will be in the audience on graduation day. In other words, it’s the type of place where someone like me does not belong. Every part of me wants to turn and run.

“Mason, are you ready?” Kate/Kaitlin says in a voice that lets me know she’s asked at least one time before. Why do they ask these questions as though my response matters in any capacity? I am clearly not ready, but since when has that ever meant anything? My gaze must tell her what I’m thinking, because she gives me a tight smile. “I’ll pop the trunk.”

Kate/Kaitlin continues talking, but I have no idea what she’s saying as I shrug on my backpack, tuck my book under my arm, hoist my bag onto my shoulder. My duffel bag containing all my worldly possessions is pitifully small, but it still feels like I’m carrying a ton of bricks as I make my way around the millions of tipped-over bikes and tricycles and snarled-up Rollerblades, my feet heavy as lead.

No part of me wants to walk into the Morgans’ house, say the things I’m going to have to say, do the things they expect me to do. Inside could be a house made to look like a skate park, surround-sound systems everywhere, a butler whose main job is to serve me Dr Pepper and Oreos every time I ring a crystal bell, and still I would not want to walk into that house. I can’t start over again. Not here. Not with someone who knows my mom.