Sarah and I had grown up side by side, two halves of a whole, sharing everything — or so I thought. When she had a baby at sixteen, the world whispered but she stayed silent, her lips sealed about who the father was. I never pressed her; I loved her too much to pry.
As the years rolled by, her son Thomas became part of my life, too. I babysat him, celebrated his birthdays, and watched him grow into a bright, curious boy. But there was something about him that always felt oddly familiar — the way he laughed, the tilt of his head when he was thinking.
It was a sense of déjà vu I could never quite name until one ordinary afternoon changed everything. Thomas was playing on the floor, his toy trucks rumbling across the carpet, when his shirt lifted just enough for me to glimpse a birthmark above his waist. I froze.
The mark was identical to the one that ran through my family — a small crescent shape, always in
What happened next changed everything…
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