The first thing my twin sister ever stole from me was a red velvet ribbon.
I was six, standing in front of our bedroom mirror while our mother tied my ponytail for the school Christmas concert. Claire sat on her bed, watching me with narrowed eyes, her own ribbon lying untouched beside her.
“I want that one,” she said.
Mom sighed. “Claire, yours is exactly the same.”
“No,” Claire snapped, pointing at my reflection. “Hers looks better.”
By the time we reached school, the ribbon was in Claire’s hair, and I was wearing the one she had thrown on the floor. That was Claire. She never wanted something until it belonged to me.
My toys disappeared into her closet. My dresses somehow became hers before dances. My friends slowly drifted toward her because she was louder, prettier, and more fearless. And since we had the same face, people always assumed I could not be too upset.