I was writing an essay question on the board when someone knocked.
“Come in,” I called.
The door opened.
“Sorry I’m late. I’m Lily.”
I turned around.
The marker fell from my fingers.
For several seconds, I forgot where I was.
A sixteen-year-old girl stood in the doorway.
Dark curls framed her face.
Her eyes were a strange gray-green.
There was a tiny crease near the left side of her mouth when she looked uncertain.
Then she lifted one hand and tucked a curl behind her left ear.
My stomach dropped.
Maggie used to do that.
Whenever she was nervous, embarrassed, or trying desperately not to laugh, she would push her hair behind that same ear.
I stared at Lily.
She wasn’t identical to the eight-year-old daughter I remembered.
That would have been easier.
Instead, she looked like an answer to a question I had spent eight years trying not to ask.
