Two weeks later, the newlyweds returned home. Their suitcases were half-unpacked in the bedroom, and the house smelled faintly of laundry detergent and rain.
The photographer had just sent the wedding photos.
That evening, after taking a shower, Emma settled on the sofa and began scrolling through the pictures.
Most of them were exactly what she had expected. Nick laughing with his groomsmen. Her mother wiping away tears. Her father walking her down the aisle. Emma was beaming like she never had before.
Then a photo caught her eye.
A woman was standing in the background.
Emma leaned closer.
The woman was near the old stone wall, partially hidden by the guests and flowers. Her face was turned toward the camera, clear enough to be seen.
“Oh my God,” Emma whispered.
Then her heart stopped.
The woman looked exactly like Sophie. The same blonde hair. The same smile. The same small scar above her eyebrow.
“This can’t be real.”
Her fingers went cold around the tablet.
“Nick!” she called to her husband.
He appeared from the kitchen, a towel over his shoulder. “What is it? Don’t tell me you’re already criticizing the photos.”
“Look.”
Nick took the tablet from her.
A second later, he fell silent.
“Is this some kind of joke?”
“No.”
Her hands trembling, Emma dialed her mother’s number.
“Mom, check your emails.”
Silence.
“Mom?”
No answer.
And then she heard her father’s cold voice on the other end of the line.
“She survived after all.”
Emma doesn’t remember grabbing her coat. She barely remembers Nick taking the keys from her trembling hands and leading her to the car.
Her father’s words played on repeat in her mind.
When they reached her parents’ house, the rain had begun to fall in thin silver streaks. Emma ran up the porch steps, the tablet pressed against her chest as if it were her own, heavy as a wound.
Her mother opened the door before Emma could knock.
“Emma,” she whispered.
Emma pushed inside. “Who survived?”
Her mother’s face fell.
“Who was Dad talking about?”
Nick came in behind Emma, silent but close.
Emma held up the photograph. “Mom, please. I need you to tell me what this means.”
Her mother covered her mouth and began to cry.
Not gently. Not the kind of crying Emma had seen at funerals or weddings. It was a deep, frightened grief, the kind of grief that comes from a place buried for too long.
Her father stood in the hallway, his shoulders rigid. He stared at the picture for a long moment.
Then he said in a low voice, “I hoped she never found you.” “
Emma’s stomach sank. “Who?”
Her mother sank down onto the sofa. “Her name is Grace.”
Emma stared at them. “I don’t know anyone named Grace.”
“No,” her father replied. “You wouldn’t.”
The room seemed too small. Emma looked from her father to her mother, searching their faces for the family she thought she knew.
Her mother wiped her cheeks with trembling fingers. “Sophie had a twin sister. An identical twin.”
Emma’s knees went weak. Nick grabbed her elbow.
“It can’t be,” Emma whispered. “I would have known.”
“We were young,” her mother said, her voice breaking. “We were scared. At birth, the doctors discovered that Grace had a serious congenital heart defect.” They told us she had very little chance of survival. They said she probably wouldn’t live more than a few months.
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