At eleven, my childhood ended when my mother died in a sudden accident. Her laughter by the shore became a haunting memory, leaving an emptiness I carried through school and my career. My father was never the same, and her gentle voice and radiant smile lingered like a shadow.
Last month, in Paris for work, I froze on a Montmartre street. A woman passed by, identical to my mother—same eyes, same hair-tuck. Heart racing, I followed, torn between disbelief and hope. Gathering courage, I whispered, “You look just like my mother.” She turned, her gaze stopping time. “I know who you are,” she said, trembling.
She wasn’t my mother but her twin sister, a secret Mom never shared. Separated as children, raised in different countries, they lost contact. My mother always yearned to reunite, but fate intervened. In Paris, tears fell as I met this missing piece of her story—and mine. We vowed to honor Mom’s memory by forging the bond she dreamed of.
