My Life, Their Game: The Second Chance

My Life, Their Game: The Second Chance

Gavin

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I was 17, a perfect 1600 on my practice SAT in hand, and my controlling mother, Maria, was smiling. It was the unsettling, predatory smile that always preceded the worst moments of my first life. "Hypothetically," she purred, "would you swap that score with Jennifer, just to see your twin sister happy?" I was a fool then, so desperate for her approval, so blind to the truth, that I said yes. That "yes" sealed my fate: Jennifer stole my academic success, got into an Ivy League, and became a lauded 'genius' influencer. I was left with her failing grades, denied every opportunity, condemned to dead-end jobs, and ultimately, died agonizingly young in a hospital bed. My parents watched me fade, their low voices filled with chilling satisfaction, not grief. "Stella was born to ensure Jennifer's success," my mother had said, "It's her purpose. She served it well." That day, I learned my life was a resource pack, a disposable battery for my sister. But then, darkness turned to blinding light, and I gasped, bolting upright on our floral living room sofa. The same sun streamed through the window, the dust motes danced as before. My mother looked up from her phone, that same predatory gleam in her eyes, about to ask the same question. This time, no. This time, things would be different.

Introduction

I was 17, a perfect 1600 on my practice SAT in hand, and my controlling mother, Maria, was smiling.

It was the unsettling, predatory smile that always preceded the worst moments of my first life.

"Hypothetically," she purred, "would you swap that score with Jennifer, just to see your twin sister happy?"

I was a fool then, so desperate for her approval, so blind to the truth, that I said yes.

That "yes" sealed my fate: Jennifer stole my academic success, got into an Ivy League, and became a lauded 'genius' influencer.

I was left with her failing grades, denied every opportunity, condemned to dead-end jobs, and ultimately, died agonizingly young in a hospital bed.

My parents watched me fade, their low voices filled with chilling satisfaction, not grief.

"Stella was born to ensure Jennifer's success," my mother had said, "It's her purpose. She served it well."

That day, I learned my life was a resource pack, a disposable battery for my sister.

But then, darkness turned to blinding light, and I gasped, bolting upright on our floral living room sofa.

The same sun streamed through the window, the dust motes danced as before.

My mother looked up from her phone, that same predatory gleam in her eyes, about to ask the same question.

This time, no.

This time, things would be different.

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