I laughed, the sound echoing oddly in the sterile room, and she turned her face toward me.
There, high on her left cheek, was a pale brown birthmark, the exact shape of the one I’d known since I was seventeen.
My breath caught; the memory of Elena’s smile flooded back, the way her own cheek bore an identical mark.
My hands trembled as I asked for her file.
The aide hesitated, then placed a folder on the desk—medical evaluations, therapy notes, a placement summary.
I flipped to the second page, eyes skimming until a single line froze my blood.
Biological Mother: ELENA BROOKS.The name hit me like a punch, and for a moment I was rooted to the spot, the world narrowing to that single line.
Without thinking, I reached for the desk phone, my fingers fumbling over the numbers I hadn’t dialed in nine years.
