When I was eleven, my world changed forever. My mom, who was an incredible swimmer, died in a tragic accident at the beach. She was the kind of person who seemed born for the ocean—graceful, strong, completely at ease in the water. But that day, a sudden rip tide pulled her under, and in a matter of moments, she was gone. Life after that was quieter, heavier, and never quite whole again. My dad and I carried on, but the absence of her laughter was always there.
Fast forward to last month. I was in Paris for work, sitting at a small street café, when I saw her—or rather, someone who looked exactly like her. My heart nearly stopped. The resemblance wasn’t just passing; it was uncanny. The same eyes. The same posture. Even the familiar way she tucked her hair behind her ear.
I couldn’t stop myself. I approached her, explained why I was staring, and showed her a picture of my mom. She studied it for a long moment, then lifted her gaze to mine and gave me a small, knowing smile. She told me she had a twin sister. They had been separated at birth, adopted by different families.
Years ago, she said, she and my mom had met once but for reasons she didn’t explain, they chose not to stay in touch. Before I could ask more, she hugged me gently, whispered her condolences, and with a soft pat on my shoulder, slipped back into the Paris crowd. I never saw her again. And I never told my dad.