⸻
Same gray eyes. Same narrow face. Even the small birthmark near his eyebrow sat in the exact same spot. It looked like somebody had taken my son and made a second copy of him — the only real difference was the hair. Milo’s was light. This boy’s was almost black.
⸻
My hands started shaking. “How is this possible?”
⸻
The principal watched me carefully. “We’re waiting on his mother. Once she arrives, I think a lot of this is going to make sense.”
Before I could ask anything else, the office door swung open behind me.
⸻
I turned around.
And the second I saw who was standing there, I screamed.
⸻
I recognized her instantly, even after eight years — Renata Kessler, the labor and delivery nurse who’d worked my entire delivery, the one who’d handed me my son and told me, with careful, practiced gentleness, that his twin hadn’t survived.
⸻
“You,” I said, my voice barely functioning. “You were my nurse. You told me one of them died.”
