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

By ten o'clock, the house felt like a museum after closing hours.

The girls hadn't come out of their room. David had gone into the kitchen, made a pot of coffee that neither of us drank, and was now pacing the floor of his home office, making hushed, uncomfortable phone calls to reschedule work meetings he was clearly too rattled to attend.

I sat at the kitchen island with the notebook open to page twenty-four, my phone resting beside my elbow.

I needed an adult. It was an infantile thought for a thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, but the impulse was instinctual. I picked up my phone and dialed my mother.

Evelyn answered on the second ring, her voice crisp and musical. "Darling! I was just looking at the photos your photographer posted on the preview gallery! They are stunning. Truly stunning. That shot of the girls by the balloon arch? Perfection. Clara says she’s going to frame it for her mantel."

"Mom," I interrupted, my throat dry. "The girls returned the gifts."

A beat of dead silence followed on the line. "What did you say?"

"They put all their birthday presents by the front door. They won't open the cards. They told me we threw a party for ourselves, not for them."

My mother let out a sharp, dismissive scoff that I had heard a thousand times throughout my life. "Oh, for heaven’s sake. What nonsense. They're twelve, Sarah. Twelve-year-old girls are moody, ungrateful little monsters. It’s the hormones. Don't you dare indulge them."

"Mom, you don't understand," I said, my voice trembling. "They gave me a notebook. They've been documenting every time we erased their individuality since they were eight years old. You called Tessa by Molly's name yesterday, Mom. Three times. You congratulated her on a school choir solo that she didn't even sing."

"Well, they look identical from behind!" Evelyn snapped defensively. "Honestly, Sarah, you're making a mountain out of a molehill. Twins are special. The whole family enjoys seeing them as a unit. Do you know how much money I spent on those matching cashmere cardigans? And they’re going to leave them by the door like trash?"

"They don't want to be a unit," I said, the realization settling deeper into my bones with every passing second. "They want to be people."

"And who gave them that idea?" Evelyn's voice turned frosty. "You cater to them too much. When you were their age, if you had pulled a stunt like this, your father would have made you write apology letters to every single guest on that list."

I looked at the counter, remembering my childhood. I was the middle child between two brothers who were star athletes. I had spent my entire adolescence striving to be seen, desperate for my mother to notice anything about me that wasn't an inconvenience.

And when I had twins—two beautiful, identical girls with porcelain skin and dark curls—the world had finally looked at me. Strangers stopped me in grocery store aisles. My mother finally smiled at family reunions, parading my daughters around like twin porcelain dolls. *Sarah's twins.* They were my identity. My currency for belonging.

"They aren't writing apology letters," I whispered.

"Excuse me?"

"They aren't writing apologies," I said, louder this time. "Because they aren't the ones who owe an apology. I am."

"Sarah Elizabeth, don't you dare start this modern psychological nonsense—"

"Goodbye, Mom."

I hung up the phone and pressed my palms against the cool granite counter. My heart was pounding violently against my ribs. In thirty-seven years, I had never hung up on my mother.

"Mom?"

I spun around.

Molly was standing in the kitchen doorway. She was still in her pajamas, her hair tangled, holding an empty glass. She looked so fragile, so impossibly young, standing in the vast, immaculate kitchen I had designed for family photo backdrops.

"Molly," I breathed, taking an instinctive step forward, then stopping myself. "Did you need some water?"

She nodded cautiously, her eyes darting to my phone, then to the blue notebook resting beside my coffee cup.

"Was that Grandma?" she asked.

"Yes."

"Is she mad?"

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "It doesn't matter if she's mad, Molly. It really doesn't."

Molly walked slowly toward the refrigerator, filled her glass from the dispenser, and took a small sip. She didn't leave right away. She lingered by the island, her fingers tracing the edge of the granite.

"Tessa wants to paint her side of the room," Molly said softly, not looking at me. "She wants it dark blue. Like the ocean at night. But we share the wall."

The bedroom. The shared sanctuary with matching white wrought-iron beds, matching floral duvets, and monogrammed pillows that said *T* and *M* in identical cursive fonts.

"What do you want your wall to be, Molly?" I asked, my voice barely audible.

Molly finally looked up. Her eyes were wide, glassy with unshed tears, searching my face for any hint of sarcasm or irritation.

"I want yellow," she whispered, her lip quivering. "Not the pale baby yellow Grandma likes. Bright yellow. Like sunflowers. But Tessa hates bright colors."

She paused, taking a ragged breath.