But instead, I opened the door and saw a little girl standing there. She looked about five years old. Her hair was brushed, her clothes were clean, and she looked well-groomed.
“Can I help you, sweetheart?” I asked.
“They told me you’re my mom,” the girl said.
I blinked. I smiled, assuming she was just confused, maybe playing a game.
“Who’s ‘they’?” I asked.
“The people I lived with,” she said. “They brought me here.”
“And where are those people now?” I asked gently.
“They left,” she answered and reached into her pocket. “They told me to give you this.” She held out an envelope.
As I reached for it, I caught sight of her left forearm. My breath hitched, and I nearly fainted. There, right below the elbow, was a birthmark. The same one I had! A small crescent, in the shape of a waning moon. It was faint but clear.
It was the same shape, same spot!
My hand trembled as I took the envelope from her and pulled out the letter inside.
“We’re very sorry that you’re finding out about this now and in this way,” the letter began.
I kept reading.
The letter revealed that her name is Ava, and her mother’s name is Elena.
“Elena asked us to bring Ava to you if anything ever happened to her…” it continued.
My eyes jumped to the next line.
“She said you were her twin sister.”
I actually laughed out loud! A short, almost hysterical sound bubbled up and escaped before I could stop it.
Twin sister? I was an only child. My parents had always said that my mother had had a difficult pregnancy with me and couldn’t have more children. That was it. Case closed — end of story.
Except there was a five-year-old girl on my doorstep with a birthmark that matched mine exactly.
My hands shook harder as I continued.
“We’re the foster family Ava has been with for the last three years. Elena passed away from cancer six months ago. Before she died, she told the social worker she had a twin she’d been separated from at birth. She didn’t know your name, only that you had the same crescent-shaped birthmark on your left arm and were adopted by a couple in this city.”
I looked at the mark on my own arm. It was the same curve and the same placement, as if someone had photocopied it onto the child.
I did the only thing I could think of. I called my parents.
They arrived in fifteen minutes. The moment my mom saw Ava sitting at the table, she went pale.
“Who is she” my dad asked.
“That is what I am hoping you can tell me” I said.
My mom stared at the crescent birthmark on Ava’s arm. Her face turned ghostly as she sat down.
“I was nineteen” she began. “Your father and I could not have children. We applied for adoption and were told that premature twin girls had been born. One was stable and the other might not survive. They said we could adopt one baby. We chose you.”
I felt the room spin. “What happened to her”
“She stayed with the state” my dad said. “We asked once and were told she had been placed somewhere else. We were afraid to tell you. We were young and scared.”
Ava soon came to my side and asked to see my arm. When we placed our arms together, the matching crescent birthmarks lined up perfectly.
Over the next few days, I contacted social services, got DNA confirmation, and met with a social worker. Ava stayed close to me the whole time. Her elderly foster parents visited and explained that her mother, Elena, had wanted Ava to be with her family.
Ava slowly settled into my home. She made up silly card games, asked for stories, and slept with her stuffed rabbit beside her. I realized I was no longer alone.
I confronted my parents again. I told them I was still angry but did not hate them. My mom apologized for the years of silence. When Ava met them, she asked my mother if she liked hot chocolate. When my mom said yes, Ava replied, “Then we can be friends.”
A week later, the social worker returned with guardianship papers. I watched Ava coloring at the table and realized that the missing part of my life was sitting right there, humming softly.
“I am not a mom” I said.
“You do not have to know everything” the social worker replied. “You just have to show up.”
So I signed the papers.
Day by day, I learned more about Ava. She loved apples, hated peanut butter, and hid socks in strange places. Her teacher later told me that Ava had said, “My mom did not know she was my mom until I showed her the moon on my arm. Now she makes the best hot chocolate.”
One night, Ava asked, “Was my mommy nice”
“I did not know her” I said. “But she made sure you would not be alone. That tells me enough.”
She pressed her birthmark to mine and whispered, “Mine is not lonely anymore.”
Neither was I.
Sometimes the family you are meant to have finds its way back to you, even after years of silence. And sometimes, when a little girl shows up saying, “They told me you are my mom,” it is the second chance you never knew you were waiting for.
