The full weight of it. Not the DNA result that was already inside her, already doing its quiet damage, but the other thing. The thing the result had made real in a way that knowing, suspecting, and fearing had not quite managed to make real.
This child.
This specific, particular, already-herself child. Born into a situation she had no hand in creating. Arriving in a world that was already complicated before she had drawn her first breath.
A twin, but not entirely. A sister, but differently. An identity that was going to require explaining, navigating, carrying, and she had not chosen any of it.
Had been handed it at the very beginning, before she was old enough to understand that things could be handed to you that you hadn't asked for.
Amara thought about that.
About the years ahead. About a little girl growing up in the particular confusion of knowing and not knowing, and being asked questions she couldn't answer, and eventually needing the answers herself.
