He closed his eyes for a second, like the truth physically hurt him.
“Because twenty years ago,” he said, his voice breaking, “you were taken from me.”
Everything inside me shattered again.
“No…” I whispered. “That’s not possible.”
But he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small.
A photograph.
Old. Slightly faded.
He handed it to me.
My hands trembled as I looked down.
A baby.
Wrapped in a soft white cloth.
Held in the arms of a younger version of the man sitting beside me.
And next to him—
A woman who looked exactly like me.
Not similar.
Not close.
Exactly.
“That’s your mother,” he said softly.
I couldn’t breathe.
“She died the night you were taken,” he continued. “And I spent years looking for you. But I was told you didn’t survive.”
The car felt too small now.
Too tight.
Too real.
Read more by clicking the (NEXT »») button below!
