My quiet Tuesday morning in Minneapolis shattered when a dental receptionist called to say my twin sister Gemma needed a ride home. There was only one problem: Gemma had died ten years earlier. Our family had buried an empty casket after a terrible highway accident near Rochester, and I had spent my entire twenties learning how to live without her. Yet when I rushed to the clinic in Bloomington, there she was—older, with shorter hair and a scar along her jaw, but unmistakably my sister. Continue Reading ⬇️
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