I became a mom.
"Please don't ask me again," she said. "I can't talk about this."
So I didn't.
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Life pushed me forward. I finished school, got married, had kids, changed my name, paid bills.
I became a mom.
Then a grandmother.
On the outside, my life was full. But there was always a quiet place in my chest shaped like Ella.
This is what Ella might look like now.
Sometimes I'd set the table and catch myself putting out two plates.
Sometimes I'd wake up at night sure I'd heard a little girl call my name.
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Sometimes I'd look in the mirror and think, This is what Ella might look like now.
My parents died without ever telling me more. Two funerals. Two graves. Their secrets went with them. For years, I told myself that was it.
A missing child. A vague "they found her body." Silence.
"Grandma, you have to come visit."
Then my granddaughter got into a college in another state.
"Grandma, you have to come visit," she said. "You'd love it here."
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"I'll come," I promised. "Someone has to keep you out of trouble."
A few months later, I flew out. We spent a day setting up her dorm, arguing about towels and storage bins.
The next morning, she had class.
"Go explore," she said, kissing my cheek. "There's a café around the corner. Great coffee, terrible music."
It sounded like me.
So I went.
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The café was crowded and warm. Chalkboard menu, mismatched chairs, the smell of coffee and sugar. I stood in line, staring at the menu without really reading it.
Then I heard a woman's voice at the counter.
Ordering a latte. Calm. A little raspy.
The rhythm of it hit me.
We locked eyes.
It sounded like me.
I looked up.
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A woman stood at the counter, gray hair twisted up. Same height. Same posture. I thought, Weird, and then she turned.
We locked eyes.
For a moment, I didn't feel like an old woman in a café. I felt like I'd stepped out of myself and was looking back.
I was staring at my own face.
I walked toward her.
Older in some ways, softer in others. But mine.
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My fingers went cold.
I walked toward her.
She whispered, "Oh my God."
My mouth moved before my brain caught up.
"Ella?" I choked out.
"My name is Margaret."
Her eyes filled with tears.
"I… no," she said. "My name is Margaret."
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I jerked my hand back.
"I'm sorry," I blurted. "My twin sister's name was Ella. She disappeared when we were five. I've never seen anyone who looks like me like this. I know I sound crazy."
"No," she said quickly. "You don't. Because I'm looking at you and thinking the same thing."
Same nose. Same eyes.
The barista cleared his throat. "Uh, do you ladies want to sit? You're kind of blocking the sugar."
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We both laughed nervously and moved to a table.
Up close, it was almost worse.
Same nose. Same eyes. Same little crease between the brows. Even our hands matched.
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