“What did you say?”
He pointed.
On the far swing, a little boy sat pumping his legs back and forth. His jacket was stained and too thin for the chilly air. His jeans were torn at the knees. But it wasn’t the clothes or the obvious poverty that made my breath hitch.
It was Stefan’s face. He had brown curls, the same shape of eyebrows, the same line of the nose, and the same habit of biting his lower lip when he concentrated.
It was Stefan’s face.
On his chin was a small, crescent-shaped birthmark.
All of it was identical to Stefan’s.
The ground felt unstable beneath me.
The doctors had been certain that Stefan’s twin had died at birth. It couldn’t possibly be him.
So why did they look so alike?
“It’s him,” Stefan whispered. “The boy from my dreams.”
It couldn’t possibly be him.
“Stefan, that’s nonsense,” I replied, trying to steady my voice. “We’re leaving.”
“No, Mom. I know him!”
Before I could react, he let go of my hand and ran across the playground.
I wanted to shout for him to come back, but the words got stuck in my throat.
The other boy looked up when Stefan stopped in front of him. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then the boy reached out his hand. Stefan took it.
“No, Mom. I know him!”
They smiled at the same time and in the same way, with the same curve in their mouths.
I felt dizzy. But I forced my legs to move and crossed the playground quickly toward them.
A woman stood near the swing set, watching the boys. She looked to be in her early 40s, with tired eyes and a guarded posture.
“Excuse me, ma’am, this must be a misunderstanding,” I began, trying to sound composed. “I’m sorry, but our kids look incredibly similar…”
I didn’t finish my sentence because the woman turned toward me.
I felt dizzy.
I recognized her, but couldn’t quite place her.
“I’ve noticed,” she said, her eyes darting away.
Her voice hit me like a slap, and my legs nearly gave out.
I had heard it before. My pulse quickened.
I studied her face more carefully. The years had added faint lines around her eyes, but there was no mistaking it.
The nurse. The one who’d held the pen to my hand while I signed papers in that hospital room.
I studied her face more carefully.
“Have we met?” I asked slowly.
“I don’t think so,” she said, but her eyes flicked away.
I mentioned the name of the hospital where I’d given birth and told her I remembered her as the nurse.
“I used to work there, yes,” she admitted carefully.
“You were there when I delivered my twins.”
“I meet a lot of patients.”
“Have we met?”
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