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bike one afternoon when I was seven and sat with me in the ER later that same day as they splinted my sprained wrist. Years of time together … of experiences, and my own father didn’t even recognize me.
    Or maybe he didn’t want to. Maybe he wanted it to be Maddy who had lived, so that was who he saw.
    Horror flashed through his eyes as he took the wheelchair from Alex and pushed me into my room. Distantly, somewhere in the remote crevices of my mind, I remembered that he still thought I was Maddy and that the soothing words he whispered weren’t meant for me.
    â€œWhat were you thinking?” Mom had Alex by the collar of his shirt and was yelling at him. “Why would you let her go down there? Why didn’t you wake us?”
    â€œPlease. He didn’t do this. I did,” I protested.
    Realization of who I was and what I needed to tell them set in. I started to shake, every inch of my body freezing. Cold. I tried so hard to say the words, to tell my parents I was Ella, but I couldn’t get a sound past my lips.
    Dad helped me out of the wheelchair and back into bed, then sat down next to me. “We’re gonna get you through this, Maddy. I promise.”
    Get through this? The phrase sounded so foreign to me, an unattainable solace that I had absolutely no right to hope for. I had been tired and angry and jealous that things came so easy for her. I’d screamed at her. The last words I said to her, the last words she would ever hear came from me, and they were bitter and mean.
    â€œWhat have I done? Oh my God, what have I done?” I wanted nothing more than to trade places with Maddy, to give her back the life I’d taken. I didn’t want to be here. Not without her.
    â€œWe are not angry with you, baby girl. We could never be angry with you.”
    Dad never called me that. He called me Bellsy when I was a kid or Isabella when I was in trouble, but mostly he called me Ella. Baby girl was Maddy’s nickname, one she both hated and used to her advantage when she wanted a curfew extension or extra money for shoes or a new pair of jeans.
    â€œI’m so sorry, I didn’t mean for her to die.” I shrank backward, the weight of those words settling deep in my core. Pressing my aching shoulders deeper into my pillow, I wished, for a moment, that I could dissolve into the bed and never come back.
    â€œWe know that,” Mom said. “It was a terrible accident, but you are here with us, Maddy. You’re alive and you have your whole life ahead of you. Your whole life. I want you to think about that, concentrate on getting stronger. That’s what your sister would want.”
    I looked at Dad, wondering if he felt the same way, if he believed that, too. He smiled and nodded, but I could see the anguish behind his eyes, the battle he was waging to keep his emotions in check. “Ella wouldn’t want you to waste a single minute of your life feeling guilty. She’d want you to live, to do everything you ever dreamed of and more. Do it for her, Maddy. Live for her.”
    They wanted me to be Maddy. Alex, Dad, Mom, the friends who had waited in the hall for hours … days until I woke up, only leaving when Alex promised to call them if my condition changed. Every single one of them wanted Maddy to live. That was who they thought I was, that was who they told themselves I was. Maybe the real problem here wasn’t that they didn’t recognize me, maybe it was that I was me and not my sister. How was I supposed to tell them the truth, the horrible truth—that the girl they had rallied around, had begged God to let live, was gone?
    I couldn’t do it to them. I couldn’t do it to her. If they wanted Maddy to live, then I’d make sure she did. Maddy deserved a chance at a real life, at happiness. I’d taken that from her with one angry jerk of the wheel. In my own selfishness, I’d done this to her, cut her life short.