The Ghost in the Photo Album

They say I started talking to my imaginary friend, Alex, when I was about four. My parents thought it was cute, a normal part of growing up. They weren't phased by the fact that I was so specific about him - that he was a year older than me, with brown hair and a distinct gap between his two front teeth. I would go on and on about the adventures we had, the games we played, and the secrets we shared. He was my best friend. But once I started elementary school, Alex just... disappeared. As I made real friends, he faded into a forgotten memory, a ghost of my early childhood.

Years flew by. I was a teenager, home for the summer after my first year of college. My younger brother was rummaging through some old family photo albums, a quest for embarrassing pictures of me. He found a picture of my parents on what looked like a vacation, standing next to a gravestone. "Who's this?" he asked, pointing to a name etched on the stone. The room went silent. My parents, sitting across from us, froze. My dad snatched the album away, his face a mask of anger. "That's none of your business," he snapped, his voice sharp and unfamiliar. My brother and I exchanged a confused look and dropped the subject.

The next morning, I confronted my mom. I asked her about the photo and why they'd gotten so upset. She took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes welling up with tears. That's when she explained: I had a sister, my twin, who was born a year before me. Her name was Alex. She was born with a rare genetic disorder and passed away just a few months after her first birthday. My parents said they couldn't bear the thought of telling me, so they created a different story about how I was an only child. She showed me a box she kept hidden away - inside were pictures of my twin sister and I as babies, and a small, worn-out teddy bear she had bought for us both. She believes I must have somehow known about her all along.