The woman standing behind the door looked exactly like me.
Not similar.
Not vaguely familiar.
Exactly like me.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
She was wearing a dark cardigan, her gray hair pulled loosely behind her head. But it was her face that froze me in place.
The same green eyes.
The same small scar above the left eyebrow.
Even the tiny dimple that appeared beside my mouth whenever I smiled.
I stumbled backward.
The woman grabbed the doorframe.
“Oh my God,” she whispered.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“You finally came.”
My heart hammered against my ribs.
“Who are you?”
She stared at me as though she had been waiting twenty years to hear those words.
“My name is Eleanor.”
I shook my head.
“No. That’s impossible.”
“I know.”
“Who are you?”
She took a shaky breath.
“I’m your mother.”
The world seemed to stop.
I actually laughed.
It was a nervous, broken laugh.
“My mother died when I was four.”
Eleanor lowered her eyes.
“That’s what Frank wanted you to believe.”
I felt the blood drain from my face.
I stepped inside without asking permission.
“Tell me everything.”
She closed the door behind me.
For several minutes, she said nothing.
Then she walked toward an old wooden cabinet and pulled out a small metal box.
She placed it on the table.
“I was never supposed to open this again.”
She unlocked it.
Inside were photographs.
Dozens of them.
Photographs of me as a baby.
Me taking my first steps.
Me sleeping in a crib.
Me sitting on a man’s shoulders.
And then I saw him.
Frank.
But beside him stood a younger version of Eleanor.
