While hastily untying the boat, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. Glancing up at the neighbor’s yard, I spot somebody sitting in the shadows of the screened-in porch. I put a hand over my eyes to shade them so I can get a better look. I can tell from the size and shape of the person that it’s Judy. She’s close enough to have heard everything that was said between me and Ezra.

“Out causing trouble, are you, June?” she calls to me. “Just like your good old mom.” The coldness in her voice is unmistakable, and it sends a chill through me. I give a curt wave and get into the boat, never feeling more unwanted somewhere than in that moment.

MAY

Something is wrong with June. She’s lying on my parents’ bed, dressed in one of my mother’s dresses, with an arm thrown over her eyes to block out the afternoon light.

The sheer white curtains move with a soft breeze coming into the room, but it does nothing to cut through the stillness. Sweat glistens across June’s chest. Why is she wearing that dress? And why is she in here? It was always the hottest room in the cottage on sunny days like this.

It could be June or it could be my mother lying on the bed. That’s how similar they look—the body, the hair, the facial features, the dress. My mother would be proud. She loved pointing out how we were similar to her. The strength of genetics and influence pleased her.

As we got older, my similarities to my mother lessened. She often commented on how like my father I was, and from her pursed expression, you could tell it wasn’t a compliment. And so she put more focus on June, who was just naturally more like her.

She used to call her June bug. She only ever called me May. Some mornings I would go into my parents’ room and find June in the bed beside my mother, the two of them stilled from sleep, looking like twin china dolls, a child version and an adult one. I could have felt left out—resentful that June was favored. I didn’t. I was relieved that it wasn’t me and worried for June.

She never learned that my mother’s attention came at a cost. You were expected to be her enthusiastic playmate, her confidante, her emotional support. Essentially, you were expected to fill the bottomless well that was my mother.

But no one could ever actually fulfill that responsibility, especially not a child. And so the fallout would always come. June would say something wrong, not show enough gratitude or enthusiasm, show too much devotion to me or a friend, and my mother would turn.