That Sunday felt ordinary.
Stefan had just turned five. He was at the age of monsters under beds and astronauts visiting in dreams. His imagination was endless.
We were passing the swings when he stopped so abruptly I nearly bumped into him.
“Mom,” he said quietly.
“What is it, honey?”
He stared across the playground. His voice was certain. “He was in your belly with me.”
My stomach tightened. “What did you say?”
He pointed.
On the far swing sat a little boy pumping his legs. His jacket was too thin for the cold, stained and worn. His jeans were torn at the knees. But none of that mattered.
It was his face.
Brown curls. The same arch of eyebrows. The same shape of nose. The same way of biting his lower lip when concentrating.
On his chin was a small crescent-shaped birthmark.
Identical to Stefan’s.
The ground beneath me seemed to shift.
The doctors had been certain. His twin had died.
“It’s him,” Stefan whispered. “The boy from my dreams.”
“Stefan, that’s nonsense,” I said, though my voice barely held steady. “We’re leaving.”
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