“Mom,” he said quietly, his voice taking on the tone he used when he was paying attention to something important.
“What is it, honey?” I asked, my attention shifting immediately to whatever had captured his focus.
He was staring across the playground at something I couldn’t yet see clearly. “He was in your belly with me.”
The certainty in his voice made my stomach tighten in a way that sent ice water through my veins.
“What did you say?” I asked, leaning down slightly to hear him better.
He pointed.
On the far swing, a little boy sat pumping his legs back and forth with the determined concentration that five-year-olds bring to physical challenges. His jacket was stained and too thin for the chilly October air. His jeans were torn at the knees in a way that suggested either active play or a lack of resources for replacement. But it wasn’t the clothes that made my breath hitch in my chest.
It was his face. The little boy had brown curls that moved in the same way Stefan’s did when he swung on the playground equipment. He had the same shape of eyebrows, the same distinctive line of the nose, the same habit of biting his lower lip when he concentrated. Every feature was disturbingly, impossibly familiar.
The doctors had been certain that Stefan’s twin had died at birth. The hospital had provided documentation. I’d attended the memorial service alone, a small and solitary affair because there was no partner to stand with me, no family gathered around to provide support. The loss had shaped the person I became.
So why did this child look exactly like my son?On his chin, visible even from the distance, was a small crescent-shaped birthmark. I looked down at Stefan’s chin. The same mark. The same shape. The same position.
