When have you said “that’s not my name”?…I learned you can lose your mother twice. The first time is the obvious one: hospital air that smells like bleach and old prayers, a monitor flatlining into a straight line, nurses speaking in that gentle, professional tone that means they’ve already moved on to the next emergency. The second time is quieter…

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Chapter 1: The First Loss

Have you ever said, “That’s not my name”?

I realize you can lose your mother twice. The first time is obvious: the air at Mount Sinai Hospital reeks of bleach and old prayers, the heart monitor runs a straight line, the nurses speak in soft, professional voices but have actually moved on to the next emergency. It’s biological death. It’s painful, but it’s the law of nature.

The second time is quieter, and infinitely more horrifying.

That’s when someone still alive begins to treat your mother like a piece of clothing.

Six months after my mother’s funeral, Evelyn, my father – Arthur Vance, a famous and wealthy architect – called. He said he had found the “new light” of his life. He wanted me to drive from Manhattan to the family estate in the Hudson Valley to meet his fiancée.

I, Clara, 26, was driving through a torrential downpour. I’d braced myself for a chance to meet a gold digger, or some dreary widow. I told myself I’d behave civilly. My father needed company.

But when the heavy oak door swung open, I saw no stranger.

I saw… Mother.

Standing beside my father was a woman in her fifties. She had chestnut-colored hair styled in large waves – the kind my mother wore in the 1990s. She wore an emerald green silk dress – the same dress my mother wore to her last birthday party. And around her neck, gleamed my grandmother’s heirloom pearl necklace.

“Hello, Clara,” the woman said. Her voice was deep, warm, and had a slight tremor at the end. Just like my mother’s.

I dropped my handbag. “Mother?” I whispered unconsciously.

My father walked over, wrapping his arm around the woman’s waist, his smile a maniacal, almost insane one.

“This isn’t your mother, Clara,” he said, his eyes fixed on the woman with a morbid infatuation. “This is Victoria. But she… she understands us so well, doesn’t she, my love?”

Victoria smiled. That smile was meticulously practiced. She tilted her head, a gesture my mother often made when flustered.

“It’s so good to see you, Clara. Arthur has told me so much about you.”

I recoiled. The scent of perfume. Chanel No. 5. My mother’s scent.

This wasn’t a love affair in her twilight years. This was a reenactment. My father wasn’t looking for a new wife. He was casting an actress for the role of his late wife.

Chapter 2: The Script of Madness

Dinner took place in the candlelit dining room. Victoria sat in my mother’s chair. She used her knife and fork the way my mother used them. She even called me “Little C”—a nickname only my mother used.

“How was the Beef Wellington, Arthur?” Victoria asked, elegantly wiping her mouth with a napkin.

“Perfect, Evelyn… oh, sorry, Victoria,” my father blurted out, but he showed no sign of embarrassment. He looked at her as if he were seeing a miracle.

I couldn’t swallow.

“Dad,” I put down my knife. “What’s going on? Why is she wearing Mom’s clothes? Why is she wearing Mom’s perfume?”

“Victoria saw them in the closet and liked them,” my father replied nonchalantly. “They fit perfectly, don’t they?”

“Fits perfectly?” I turned to Victoria. “Who are you? What kind of nonsense are you up to?”

Victoria looked at me, a fleeting look of fear in her eyes, but it was quickly masked by the composure of a professional actress.

“Clara, I just wanted to cheer your father up. He’s been through so much.”

“By turning into a ghost?”

“Enough, Clara!” My father slammed the table. “Respect Victoria. She’s a wonderful woman. She’s trying to mend this family.”

That night, I couldn’t sleep. I wandered the dark hallway of the mansion. I heard noises coming from my father’s study.

I crept closer. The door was slightly ajar.

My father was sitting in an armchair. Victoria was standing in front of him, turning like a model.

“No, not like that,” my father said, his voice stern like a director’s. “Evelyn never lets her hands hang down like that. She has to put her hands on her hips. And the smile…it has to be a little sadder. She smiles too brightly. Evelyn always has a sadness in her eyes.”

“Like this?” Victoria adjusted her posture.

“Better. Now say that.”

Victoria cleared her throat. “Arthur, I’m tired. Don’t work too late.”

“Wonderful,” my father sighed, tears welling up in his eyes. He stood up and hugged her tightly. “Oh, Evelyn, I missed you so much.”

I covered my mouth to prevent myself from gagging. My father had hired this woman. He was training her. He was turning her into a living doll to satisfy his obsession.

But why did Victoria agree? For the money? Or was she crazy too?

Chapter 3: The Diary in the Shoebox

The next morning, as my father and Victoria strolled through the garden (she had to hold the umbrella at a 45-degree angle, just like my mother used to), I sneaked into their bedroom.

I rummaged through the wardrobe. Victoria’s clothes were all my mother’s old ones. Nothing belonged to “Victoria” at all.

I found a shoebox hidden deep under the bed.

Inside was a thick stack of scripts titled: “THE REBIRTH PROJECT”.

Inside the scripts were rows of…

Five pages of meticulous notes about my mother’s preferences, habits, voice, and biography.

But beneath the script was something else. A black leather-bound diary.

It was Victoria’s diary.

I opened it and read. The first pages described poverty, debt, and a “strange but high-paying job” offer from a wealthy architect.

But the recent pages… the ink was smudged with tears.

“October 15th. He made me dye my hair for the third time because the color wasn’t right. My scalp burned. He called me Evelyn all day. I almost forgot my real name was Sarah.”

“October 20th. He started giving me the same ‘vitamin’ Evelyn used to drink. I felt dizzy and nauseous. He said Evelyn often felt the same way. He wanted me to ‘feel’ her pain.”

“November 1st. I found Evelyn’s medical records in the safe. She didn’t die of natural heart failure. She had high levels of arsenic in her blood. My God, he killed her. He poisoned her slowly, to weaken her, to make her dependent on him. And now… he’s doing it to me.”

I dropped the diary.

My father isn’t just a miserable person. He’s a Munchausen killer. He killed my mother because she wanted a divorce (I remember the arguments last year). And now, he doesn’t just want a stand-in.

He wants to reenact the death process.

He wants Victoria (whose real name is Sarah) to be Evelyn, so he can “care for” and kill her again. A sick cycle.

“What are you doing here?”

A voice rang out from behind me. I spun around.

Victoria was standing in the doorway. She looked pale and trembling.

“You…” I held up the diary. “You knew he killed my mother. Why didn’t you run away?”

Victoria stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She rolled up her sleeve. It was covered in bruises and needle marks.

“He injected me,” she whispered. “Sedatives, hallucinogens. I can’t leave. He locked the gate, confiscated my phone. I’m a prisoner, Clara. I’m a guinea pig in a glass cage.”

“We have to get out of here,” I said, taking her hand.

“It’s too late,” Victoria looked out the window. “He’s going upstairs. He’s taking his midday ‘tonic’.”

My father’s heavy footsteps echoed down the wooden hallway. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“Listen,” Victoria gripped my shoulder, her eyes blazing with determination. “I’m not Evelyn. I’m Sarah. And I won’t die like your mother.”

She picked up a utility knife from the dressing table and hid it in her sleeve.

“Cooperate with me.”

Chapter 4: The Twist of the Name

The door opened. My father walked in, carrying a tray of medicine and a glass of orange juice.

“What are you two women doing?” He chuckled, a chillingly gentle smile. “Evelyn, it’s time for your medicine. Clara, you should have some orange juice too.”

“She’s not Evelyn, Dad,” I said, my voice trembling, backing away.

“Don’t talk nonsense,” my father frowned, walking toward Victoria. “Drink it, darling. Then we’ll look at the wedding album.”

Victoria stood still. She took the glass of medicine.

“Arthur,” she said.

“What is it, dear?”

“I have a question.”

“Anything, Evelyn.”

Victoria looked up. Her eyes changed. The facade of a “good wife” vanished.

“Have you ever said ‘that’s not my name’?”

My father froze. “What did you say?”

Victoria threw the glass of orange juice at my father’s face.

“MY NAME IS NOT EVELYN! MY NAME IS SARAH!”

She screamed, lunging forward, pulling out a utility knife.

My father, though surprised, reacted quickly. He pushed her hand away, slapping her hard, sending her tumbling onto the bed. The strength of a deranged man is terrifying.

“You bitch! You dare ruin my script!” My father roared, grabbing Victoria by the neck. “You have to be Evelyn! You have to die like her!”

“Dad! Stop!” I grabbed the brass bedside lamp and smashed it against his head.

My father, stunned, let go.

Victoria coughed violently, but she didn’t run away. She scrambled to her feet, looking at my father clutching his bleeding head.

“You want Evelyn?” she whispered.

She went to the wardrobe and pulled out an old music box – my mother’s favorite memento. She wound it up. The sound of Clair de Lune filled the air, eerie and mournful.

My father stared at the music box, his eyes glazed over. “Evelyn… are you playing the music?”

Victoria stepped back, standing beside me. She pointed to the space behind my father.

“Look, Arthur. Evelyn’s standing behind you. She’s asking you why you put arsenic in her tea.”

It was a psychological attack. For a schizophrenic and obsessive person like my father, the line between reality and illusion was very thin.

My father spun around. “Evelyn? I… I did this because I love you! I want to keep you forever!”

He spoke to thin air. He knelt down, begging a ghost.

“Run!” Victoria pulled my hand.

We dashed out of the room, running down the stairs.

My father snapped back to reality. He roared like a wounded beast, chasing after us. “COME BACK HERE! YOU CAN’T GO TO HIT US!”

“GET OFF THE STAGE!”

We ran to the garage. I started the car. My father rushed forward, banging his hand against the window. His face was bloodstained, distorted, and horrifying.

I pressed the gas pedal. The car sped off, throwing him onto the gravel.

Chapter 4: The Curtain Falls

The police found my father in his study. He had committed suicide with an overdose of arsenic – the same poison he had used to kill my mother.

He died in his wedding tuxedo, clutching a photograph of my mother. He had chosen the ending to his scenario: Reunion with his deceased wife in the afterlife, where no one could take her away again.

Sarah’s (Victoria’s) diary and my mother’s medical records were irrefutable evidence. The case closed with a murder-suicide conclusion.

Sarah and I sat in a Manhattan café, three months later.

Sarah had cut her hair short and dyed it. Black. She didn’t resemble my mother at all anymore. She was starting her life over with the compensation money from my father’s estate.

“Thank you,” Sarah said. “For believing me.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “For helping me… bury my mother a second time. This time for real.”

I looked at Sarah. I realized that, even though she was wearing my mother’s clothes, using my mother’s perfume, she was never my mother. My mother had died in that cold hospital. And the woman in the mansion… was just another victim of my father.

I had lost my mother twice.

The first time, she left this world.

The second time, I had to tear her image away from a stranger to save the truth.

“Your name is Sarah,” I said, smiling. “A beautiful name.”

Sarah smiled back. Her own smile.

“Yes.” “That’s my name.”

Outside, the New York sun blazed. No more ghosts, no more scripts. Only survivors remained, learning to write their own stories.