“No,” she said quickly. “You don’t. Because I’m looking at you and thinking the same thing.”
Same nose. Same eyes. Same little crease between the brows. Even our hands matched.
She wrapped her fingers around her cup. “I don’t want to freak you out more,” she said, “but… I was adopted.”
My heart tightened. “From where?” I asked.
“Small town, Midwest. Hospital’s gone now. My parents always told me I was ‘chosen,’ but if I asked about my birth family, they shut it down.”
I swallowed. “What year were you born?”
“My sister disappeared from a small town in the Midwest,” I said. “We lived near a forest. Months later, the police told my parents they’d found her body. I never saw anything. No funeral I remember. They refused to talk about it.”
We stared at each other.
“What year were you born?” she asked.
I told her. She told me hers.
Five years apart.
“We’re not twins,” I said. “But that doesn’t mean we’re not—”
“Connected,” she finished.
She took a breath. “I’ve always felt like something was missing from my story,” she said. “Like there was a locked room in my life I wasn’t allowed to open.”
“My whole life has felt like that room,” I said. “Want to open it?”
We exchanged numbers.
She let out a shaky laugh. “I’m terrified,” she admitted.
“So am I,” I said. “But I’m more scared of never knowing.”
She nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s try.”
Back at my hotel, I replayed every time my parents had shut me down. Then I thought of the dusty box in my closet—the one with their papers I had never touched.
Maybe they hadn’t told me the truth out loud. Maybe they had left it behind on paper.
