That was the first time I knew we were getting somewhere.
Months later, I was getting ready for dinner when Zoe appeared behind me in the bathroom mirror.
Her lips had long since returned to normal.
She stared at my reflection.
Then hers.
I felt that old fear rise.
“What?”
She leaned closer to the mirror.
“I really do have your mouth.”
“You do.”
She turned her face sideways.
I waited.
Then she smiled.
“I’m sorry.”
Zoe frowned.
“For what?”
“Genetics.”
She laughed.
“No.”
Her fingers briefly touched her lips.
Then she looked at herself again.
“I think I’m keeping it.”
I laughed so suddenly I almost ruined my mascara.
Zoe laughed too.
And for the first time since she’d come home with her face hidden under that hood, neither of us looked away from the mirror.
