The photograph was old, but the woman’s face was unmistakable.
She looked almost exactly like me.
The same green eyes.
The same small scar near the left eyebrow.
Even the same crooked smile I had inherited without ever knowing where it came from.
I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Who is she?”
“Her name was Margaret Collins. She was my younger sister.”
I stared at him.
“Your sister?”
He nodded.
“And the baby in her arms is you.”
I shook my head so violently that my hair fell across my face.
“No. No, that’s impossible.”
“I know how this sounds.”
“Then explain it!”
My voice echoed through the empty garden.
Dad remained where he was, gripping the edge of the bench.
“Your biological mother died the day you were born. There were complications during delivery. The doctors tried everything, but they couldn’t save her.”
I pressed my hand against my mouth.
