I spent $3,870 on my twin daughters' twelfth birthday party.

On Wednesday night, two days before the big Friday split, the house was quiet.

I was folding laundry in the family room when I noticed the blue spiral notebook sitting on the side table beside David’s reading chair.

I picked it up.

It had been over a week since Tessa had shoved it into my hands. I thought I had read every painful word. I thought I had memorized every grievance, every silent cry for help documented over those forty-three pages.

I flipped idly through the back of the book.

Pages thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.

Forty-one.

Forty-two.

Forty-three.

And then, my thumb caught on page forty-four.

My heart seized.

When Tessa had handed me the notebook on Sunday morning, there had been forty-three entries. The remaining pages had been blank.

Someone had written a new entry.

The handwriting belonged to Tessa, but the pencil strokes were frantic, jagged, pressing so violently into the paper that the lead had torn through the fibers in several places. The date at the top was *Sunday, 2:30 AM.*

The night after their birthday party. Just hours before they had stacked the presents by the door.

I sank onto the sofa, my breath catching in my throat, and read:

> *Entry 44:*

> *"Molly fell asleep crying tonight because of the lemon cake. I watched her sleep from across the room. She looks so small when she cries. I hate the party. I hate the pink banners. I hate the photographer who kept telling me to 'smile like your sister, Tessa, be sweet like Molly.'*

> *I don't know how to be sweet like Molly. I only know how to be angry.*

> *Sometimes, late at night, I have this awful, evil thought that makes me feel like a monster. Sometimes I wonder who I would be if Molly was never born. Would Mom love me for me? Or would she not care about me at all because I’m not a twin?*

> *And then I hate myself for thinking it, because if Molly was never born, I would be completely alone in this house. I don't want to lose my sister. But I feel like I'm drowning in her reflection. - Tessa"*

A cold, agonizing pain ripped through my chest.

*“Sometimes I wonder who I would be if Molly was never born.”*

The words burned into my retinas.

I hadn't just stifled their preferences. I hadn't just forced them into matching clothes. I had created a psychological nightmare where my daughter felt that her very existence was tied to an unwanted reflection—where she felt like an evil monster for craving an identity of her own.

"Sarah?"

I looked up. David was standing in the archway, holding a basket of clean dish towels. When he saw my face—the sheer, unadulterated horror staring back at him—he dropped the basket.

"What is it? What happened?"

I couldn't speak. I could only hold out the notebook, pointing my shaking finger at page forty-four.

David walked over, took the book, and read the entry.

As his eyes moved down the lined paper, the color drained completely from his face. His jaw went slack, his shoulders dropping as if an invisible anvil had fallen across his spine.

"Oh, God," David breathed, sinking onto the coffee table across from me. "Oh, God, Tessa..."

"We need help, David," I whispered, my voice raw, stripped of every ounce of pride I had ever possessed. "We can't fix this with lemon cakes and go-karts. We don't know what we're doing. We need a professional."

David looked at the notebook, then closed it with trembling hands.