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Wait . . . where’s my birthmark? I have a heart-shaped birthmark on my thigh, but it’s not in this photo,
hmmm weird...
I snatch up another photograph, this one a close-up of Mom and me smiling together. That girl has brown eyes. Mine are gray.
WHAT DID SHE SAYYYYY
Fuck. I shoot up in bed at the interruption by my alarm. I’m disoriented realizing I’m no longer eight years old and about to have my first kiss. It’s that time of year when I have flashbacks of Bridget in my sleep, it always happens around the anniversary of her disappearance.
WHAT DA HELL
“What’s the name of that genetic test again?”
Ohhh sheeetttt
“Mom?” She turns toward me, and I almost startle with how much she’s aged. “Huh? No, sorry, I’m”—her eyes narrow—“Birdie?”
SHE KNEW IT WAS HER OMG. Moms always knows
“Sweetheart, it’s your car, or my car. I’m not leaving you. I’ve spent twenty-two years away from my baby. I’m not letting you go.”
My heart
“How did you know it was me?” “I just knew.” She smiles.
omggggg
