Everything was exactly as it should be until last week, when my past caught up with us.
They grew into remarkable
young adults.
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The knock on the door was sharp and demanding. I opened it to find a woman in designer clothes, reeking of perfume that probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill.
Then she smiled, and my stomach dropped.
“Hello, Margaret,” she said. “I’m Alicia. We met on the plane 18 years ago.”
My mind raced back to that flight. The kind woman who’d encouraged me to help the babies, the one who sat beside me. It was… her.
My hands started shaking. “You were sitting next to me.”
“I was.” She walked past me into my living room without being invited, her heels clicking on the hardwood. Her eyes scanned everything: the family photos, the twins’ graduation pictures, the comfortable furniture.
My mind raced back to that flight.
