My son got into a fight at school because another boy wouldn’t stop calling him his “brother.” I marched into that office ready to apologize for my kid’s temper. Then I saw the other boy’s face, and every bit of blood in my body went cold.
Eight years earlier, I was pregnant with twin boys. Labor came weeks too early. When I woke up two days later, there was only one bassinet beside my bed.
One baby.
I looked at my husband, Foster, and whispered, “Where’s the other one?”
He wouldn’t meet my eyes. “He didn’t make it.”
I never saw a bo:dy. No fune:ral I ever attended. He told me I’d been too weak to handle it, so he’d taken care of everything himself.
I believed him.
From that day on, I poured everything into Milo. Years passed. I learned to carry the grief without letting it swallow me.
Then Milo started mentioning a boy named Silas.
“Silas called me his brother again!” he shouted one afternoon, throwing his backpack down.
I laughed it off. “He’s just messing with you, bud.”
“He keeps saying we have the same dad but different moms. It’s so weird.”
Something twisted low in my stomach.
A week later, the school called. “Another fight. This one’s serious. You need to come in.”
I rushed over, ready to apologize for my son’s temper.
The second I stepped inside, I turned around and froze completely.
Same gray eyes. Same narrow face. The exact same birthmark near the eyebrow.
Only the hair was different.
“How is this possible?” I whispered.
“We’re waiting on his mother,” the principal said. “Once she gets here, this will make sense.”
The door swung open behind me.
I turned around.
And the second I saw who was standing there, I screamed.
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