My husband asked me to “lend” my sister for his reunion—just one night, he said. But the way they practiced my memories felt too real… and the one call I made next changed everything.
My husband wanted my sister to be his wife for a day. His brother wanted me for life.
My husband, Damen, had this way of dropping bombs like he was asking me to pass the salt. We were eating dinner—pasta I’d made after a 12-hour day at the firm because Damen said he was too tired to cook, even though he’d been home since three. I was twirling spaghetti around my fork when he said,
“So, my ten-year reunion is next month, and I need Nikki to come with me.”
I kept chewing because I assumed I’d misheard him. Nikki was my younger sister—prettier than me by conventional standards, thinner than me by fifteen pounds, and unemployed by choice for the last two years because she was “finding herself” on my dime. I paid her rent. I paid her car insurance. I paid for the highlights she got every six weeks because she said dark roots made her feel less confident. I didn’t realize I was also paying for her to attend my husband’s high school reunion, too.
I swallowed my pasta and said,
“Why would Nikki be coming to your reunion?”
Damen didn’t even look up from his phone.
“Because I need her there,”
he said like that explained everything.
