No More Living in Her Shadow

I was twelve when Henry Shaw took me home from the orphanage, gave me a new name, put me through school, and gave me a good life. Ten years later, his first love returned from abroad. Her name sounded like mine, and her face looked like a mirror image. I quickly realized I had been a stand-in all along. Crushing the diagnosis in my pocket, I decided that I was going to live the rest of my life for myself, even if I did not have much time left.

The smoke from the burning candles in front of my grandmother’s grave stung my eyes, turning them red.

A bunch of bright flowers lay on the ground. I stared at them mindlessly, my body like an unthinking machine.

The doctor’s words echoed in my head, carrying a hint of regret, “You should get hospitalized soon.”

I was twenty-two years old, and I had just been diagnosed with stage three lung cancer.

My life was supposed to just be starting, but it was already hurtling toward a desperate end.

I gripped the diagnosis. There it was—my name, Lynn May, clearly written on it.

Henry Shaw gave me that name when I was twelve, after I came to live with him.

The other children at the orphanage called me ‘Little Mute’ because I hardly ever said anything.

I still remember that boy, who was a head taller than me, leaning down with warmth and kindness in his eyes.

“You’re so small. Let’s call you Lynn from now on.”

I cherished that name. After all, one only named something if one cared about it.

However, three months ago, Henry introduced me to a woman.

She studied my face, noticed how similar we looked, and asked Henry with a playful smile on her face, “Her name’s Lynn?”

Henry introduced her. “This is Lynette, my childhood friend.”

The girl extended her hand with a face full of arrogance.

“I’m Lynette Monroe.”

I was the tiny, insignificant Lynn, and she was the one and only Lynette.

When my grandmother died when I was six, I wandered the streets covered in filth, scavenging for food until the police officers sent me to the orphanage.

At twelve, Henry picked me out from the crowd of children and brought me home.

No one had ever chosen me so decisively before.

My grandmother used to tell me that as long as someone remembered your name, your soul stayed whole even after death.

Her tombstone read Wanda Carson. However, I could not remember what I was called before I became Lynn May.

“Grandma, I’ll come for you soon. Hold on a little longer…”

I would be joining her soon. After I left, no one would visit us.

I had already reserved a plot next to hers.

Suddenly, the cemetery manager came rushing over, looking troubled.

“Miss May, Mr. Shaw says he’s taking the plot you reserved.”

Wiping away the tears the smoke had pulled from my eyes, I called Henry.

His voice