I remember looking from one girl to the other, waiting for someone to explain what I was seeing.
Instead, Olivia laughed.
"What are the odds?" she asked.
The question hung in the air.
Nobody answered.
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That night, after everyone left, I sat alone at my kitchen table with the hospital bracelet in front of me. The plastic had yellowed with age, and the writing had nearly faded away.
I traced my finger over it while old memories surfaced.
The hospital room.
The doctor's apology.
The daughter I never got to meet.
The daughter I had spent 15 years imagining.
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Eventually, I put the bracelet away and told myself I was being ridiculous. Coincidences happen. Life isn't a mystery novel. There had to be a reasonable explanation for what everyone was seeing.
At least, that's what I wanted to believe. Unfortunately, the older the girls became, the harder that explanation was to accept. By 17, even strangers noticed the resemblance.
