It hit me way harder than I expected, moving to a totally new city for college—like, seven hours from home. I’ve always been super close with my mom, and being that far from her? Yeah, it sucked. A constant, low thrum of missing her in my chest. To keep busy (and sane), I picked up a job at a little local store. First day, I met Elisa—a super sweet co-worker, instantly friendly and warm. But… kinda weird, too. Because the more time I spent with her, the more I realized—she looked just like my mom. Same eyes, same laugh, even the way she talked. I thought I was just homesick.
That’s what I told myself, every single day. My heart was aching for home, for her. So, when Elisa walked into my life, a bright, familiar echo, I clung to it. She had the same expressive eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when she truly smiled. Her laugh wasn’t just similar; it was identical, a deep, bubbling sound that always made my mom throw her head back. Even the habit of pushing her hair behind her ear when she was thinking, it was uncanny.
We became fast friends. She helped me navigate the new city, introduced me to her friends, made sure I didn’t feel so utterly alone. I confided in her about how much I missed my mom, how much I sometimes wished I could just be home. Elisa listened patiently, her gaze soft and understanding. It’s just because I miss my mom so much, I’m projecting, I’d rationalize, trying to push down the shivers that sometimes ran down my spine.
But the similarities grew too specific. One day, she pulled out a worn little keychain from her bag – a tiny, silver hummingbird. My mom had the exact same one, a gift from my dad years ago. I joked about it, “Wow, you and my mom have such similar taste!” Elisa just smiled, a little too brightly, and quickly changed the subject. A coincidence, I decided, though a tiny knot of unease began to tighten in my stomach.
Then came the day I helped her move into a new apartment. We were packing boxes, laughing, when I found a small, locked wooden box tucked away in the back of her closet. It felt heavy, somehow significant. “What’s in here?” I asked, playfully shaking it. Elisa’s face went white. WHITE. “Just old junk,” she mumbled, snatching it from my hands. “Don’t worry about it.” Her sudden defensiveness was chilling.
That’s not junk, I thought, watching her hide the box. That’s something important. The knot in my stomach turned into a cold, hard stone. My mind started racing, piecing together all the little “coincidences.” The way she knew the obscure regional slang my mom sometimes used. The exact same birthmark my mom had, hidden just under her jawline. It wasn’t homesickness. It wasn’t coincidence.
I started digging. Not aggressively, but subtly. A little internet search for her family background. A casual question about her past. She was adopted. That wasn’t a secret. What was a secret, what she clearly guarded, was any detail about her birth parents.
One night, after a particularly long shift, Elisa mentioned her birth parents briefly. “They were so young,” she sighed, a faraway look in her eyes. “My birth mom was just a teenager. She was from [my hometown].”
The air left my lungs. My blood ran cold. MY HOMETOWN. My mom, the perfect, loving, always-there-for-me mom, had always been so vague about her teenage years. She was a bit wild, darling, nothing to worry about, she’d always laugh off.
My hands shook as I unlocked my phone. My mom’s old Facebook profile was still active. I scrolled, scrolled, past pictures of me growing up, past happy family vacations, until I found it. A blurry, grainy picture from a relative’s old album. My mom, barely seventeen, looking incredibly young, a slight bump visible under her oversized sweater. The date stamp: a year before she met my dad. A year before I was even a thought.
I looked at Elisa, sleeping peacefully on her couch, exhausted from the move. Her face, in the dim light, was an exact replica of the young woman in the photograph. The same nose, the same curve of the lips. I felt a scream building in my throat. My perfect, loving mom. My sweet, kind co-worker.
I raced back to Elisa’s apartment, my heart pounding, the spare key she’d given me finally used. I found the wooden box, hidden deeper this time. It wasn’t locked. Inside, a faded birth certificate. And there it was. Her birth mother’s name. MY MOTHER’S NAME. And below it, the father’s name, blank.
My mom. My MOM had another child. A daughter. A sister. ME AND ELISA ARE SISTERS. All this time, I thought I was just homesick, seeing her everywhere. But I wasn’t seeing my mom. I was seeing the sister she gave away.
And the worst part? The box contained a letter. A recent one. From my mom. Talking about finally getting to know her. About seeing her thriving. My mom knew. She knew Elisa was here. She knew I was here. And she never said a word. She used my homesickness, my desire for comfort, to orchestrate this. To get close to her other daughter. She used me. I’m not just heartbroken. I’m utterly, profoundly betrayed.
