When I was 11, my mom—an experienced swimmer—tragically drowned in a freak rip tide. Her loss shattered my dad and me,
leaving behind an ache that never quite healed. Years later, in Paris for work, I saw a woman outside
a café who looked exactly like her. Heart pounding, I approached her and mentioned my mother’s name—Sarah.
The woman froze. “I had a twin sister named Sarah,” she said softly. “We were adopted by different families
. We spoke once, but… we never stayed in touch.” I was stunned. My mom had a twin? One I never knew about?
She gave me a hug, offered a quiet apology, and walked away into the crowd. I never told my dad. Some memories,
I realized, are delicate—too fragile to disturb. But I’ve never stopped wondering what else she might
have known about the mother I lost… and the life she left behind.
