For several seconds, neither of us moved.
The dental clinic seemed impossibly quiet.
A television played somewhere behind the receptionist.
A child flipped through a magazine.
A printer hummed.
But all I could hear was my heartbeat.
The woman near the window looked exactly like me.
Not perfectly.
Ten years had changed both of us.
Her hair was shorter.
There was a faint scar near her temple.
Her face was thinner.
Her shoulders seemed permanently tense.
But the eyes were Evelyn’s.
My eyes.
Our mother’s eyes.
She took one step toward me.
I stepped backward.
Pain crossed her face.
“Rachel.”
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice shook.
“I buried you.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“I know.”
“I stood beside your coffin.”
“I know.”
“Mom collapsed at your funeral.”
Evelyn covered her mouth.
I continued.
“Dad stopped speaking for weeks.”
“I know.”
“How could you know?”
She lowered her hand.
“Because I found the obituary years later.”
My stomach twisted.
“You found your own obituary?”
“Yes.”
