After losing my oldest daughter, I thought moving might help my family survive grief. Instead, my youngest began insisting she had seen her sister across the street. I wanted to believe it was confusion but one unsettling discovery made me question why my husband had chosen our neighborhood.
The apple pie hit the porch before I understood why I’d dropped it.
The dish cracked near my shoes.
A girl stood halfway down the stairs inside the house across from mine, staring at me with dark hair falling over one shoulder.
For one impossible moment, grief rearranged her face.
The dish cracked near my shoes.
“Oh my God, Ava? What the hell is going on here?”
The woman who’d opened the door stepped in front of her.
The girl looked frightened.
“I’m Maisie. Not Ava.”
I stared at her again.
She wasn’t Ava, but she had Ava’s smile and my husband’s eyes.
“I’m Maisie. Not Ava.”
Then the woman said something that made the broken pie at my feet seem like the least important thing on that porch.
“You must be Aurora.”
Four months earlier, my 11-year-old daughter, Ava, died in a car accident.
My husband, Ryan, had picked her up and was driving home when another car hit them.
Ryan survived.
“You must be Aurora.”
Ava didn’t.
Gabriella was five. She adored her older sister more than anything.
Ava used to brush her hair and read to her. Gabriella copied everything Ava did, including pushing her hair behind her left ear when she was concentrating.
After the accident, Gabriella kept asking when Ava was coming home.
Eventually, the questions stopped.
Ryan was the one who suggested moving.
Eventually, the questions stopped.
“I can’t keep walking past her room,” he told me one night. “Please, Aurora.”
Our house had become a collection of places where Ava should’ve been.
Ryan showed me listings in a city three hours away.
“This one has a yard for Gabby.”
I barely looked.
“Whatever you think, Ryan. I chose to buy Ava’s cereal last week because I… forgot.”
“This one has a yard for Gabby.”
So, we sold the house.
Ryan handled more of the search than I did, and I was grateful at the time.
Our first few nights in the new house were strangely peaceful.
New walls didn’t know our history.
Then, one Tuesday morning, I found Gabriella standing at her bedroom window instead of getting ready for preschool.
“Gabby, where are your shoes?”
So, we sold the house.
She pointed across the street.
“Mom, I saw my sister in the window. She lives in the house across the street.”
I stopped beside her.
“What did you say?”
“Ava lives there.”
The house across from ours looked almost empty. I’d never seen anyone come out.
“What did you say?”
I crouched beside Gabriella.
“Sweetheart, Ava can’t live there.”
“She does!”
She pushed her hair behind her ear with the back of her hand.
Her eyes filled.
“Sweetheart, Ava can’t live there.”
“Why won’t she come over?”
I pulled her against me.
“Because that wasn’t Ava.”
“You didn’t even see her.”
She had me there.
“Why won’t she come over?”
The next afternoon, Gabriella came running while I was unpacking dishes.
“Mommy, she’s there again.”
I put down the plate.
“Show me.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me upstairs.
By the time we reached her window, nobody was there.
“Mommy, she’s there again.”
Gabriella pressed both palms against the glass.
Ryan appeared in the doorway.
“What’s happening?”
Gabriella pointed. “Ava’s over there.”
Something passed across Ryan’s face.
It lasted less than a second.
“What’s happening?”
Then he said, “Aurora, maybe we shouldn’t push her.”
“She’s missing her sister, Ryan.”
Gabriella crossed her arms. “I saw her!”
Ryan moved toward her.
“Come downstairs with me.”
She followed him.
“Aurora, maybe we shouldn’t push her.”
I stayed at the window.
“Ryan.”
He turned.
“Have you met whoever lives there?”
“No.”
His answer came too quickly.
That stayed with me.
I stayed at the window.
That night, after Gabriella fell asleep, I carried a chair into her room and sat by the window.
I was looking for the child Gabriella had mistaken for Ava.
Then the curtain across the street moved.
A girl stepped into the upstairs window.
I stood. She had dark hair and was about Ava’s height. She turned her head.
Then she noticed me.
A girl stepped into the upstairs window.
The curtain closed.
The next morning, I started making an apple pie.
Ryan came in while I was rolling the dough.
“What’s that for?”
“The neighbors across the street.”
His coffee cup stopped halfway to his mouth.
“What’s that for?”
“Why them?”
“Because Gabriella has seen that girl twice, and now I have too.”
“Just leave this alone today.”
I stopped rolling.
“Why?”
“I’m saying you don’t need to walk over there because Gabby saw someone in a window.”
“Just leave this alone today.”
“I saw her too.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened.
“Fine. Let me take the pie over when it’s done.”
I studied him. “You told me you hadn’t met them.”
“I haven’t.”
“Then why are you volunteering?”
“I saw her too.”
He looked away. “I’m trying to make things easier.”
Twenty minutes after the pie came out of the oven, Ryan watched me wrap it.
“Aurora, please.”
I picked it up.
“If there’s something I need to know before I cross that street, say it now.”
He went pale.
“I’m trying to make things easier.”
“Just don’t go over there angry.”
I hadn’t been.
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