You never asked to marry Jerome Giovanni, your dead best friend’s husband. But after she died, he insisted—said it was her wish. Said she saved his life, and this was what she wanted.

You were never her. But they made you act like her. Dress like her. Be her. Even his son, Leon, only treated you kindly when you were playing that part.

One day, dressed in your own clothes, Leon looked at you and said, “I don’t want you to be my mommy if you look like that.”

That was it. You asked for a divorce. Jerome didn’t take it seriously—until you called your lawyer.

He didn’t know the truth: it was you who saved him back then, not her. The scar on your shoulder had always been the proof.

After leaving, you bought a beach house. Surfed again. Lived again.

Leon called when he won an award—his father didn’t show up. No one did. “You were there last time,” he said. You reminded him of what he once told you.

Jerome called next.

“Where did you get that scar on your shoulder?”

You hung up.

The next night, he called again.

“I remembered,” he said, voice hollow. “It wasn’t her. It was you. That night. You dragged me out. You burned yourself saving me…”

You stayed silent.

“…I made you her replacement. When all along—she wasn’t the one I owed.”

Later, you heard from a cousin. Jerome had shouted at Leon, telling him he failed his mother—you.

And then he turned to your dead best friend’s parents, seething. “You lied. She lied. You took everything from the woman who gave me my life.”