“They brought her home that same day, Evelyn,” Martha said, her eyes filling with tears.

I stared at the name on the screen. The child was named Chloe Miller.

I pulled out my phone with trembling fingers. My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it twice.

I typed the name into the search bar.

A profile popped up. A young woman, twenty-two years old, with bright green eyes and a small, crooked smile.

My mother had those exact green eyes. She had that exact crooked smile.

But the detail that made my legs completely die under me was her employment.

Chloe worked at the Starbucks on Main Street.

I go there every single morning at 7:15 AM before my shift at the library.

Every single morning, a girl with my mother’s eyes serves me a medium roast coffee with two sugars.

She always smiles and says, “Have a good day, Evelyn.”

And I always smile back, completely unaware that I am looking at my own flesh and blood.

I left the records office without a word. My mind was a chaotic storm of memories, anger, and absolute confusion.

I drove to the Starbucks on Main. My hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly my fingers turned white.

I parked across the street and just watched the green neon sign through my windshield.

I don’t know how long I sat there. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.

I kept thinking about the white roses. I kept thinking about the empty grave.

Finally, I opened the car door and walked inside. The bell above the door chimed.

The smell of roasted coffee beans and sweet syrup hit me, just like it did every morning.

But today, everything felt different. The light felt too bright. The music playing from the speakers sounded too loud.

Chloe was behind the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with a black cloth.

She looked up and smiled her crooked smile. “Back for a second cup, Evelyn?”

I couldn’t speak. I just stood there, staring at her face, looking at the small mole near her left temple.

I have that exact same mole.

Just then, the back door of the shop opened, and a woman walked in.

It was Helen Miller. The adoptive mother.

She was wearing an expensive beige trench coat, carrying a designer purse.

“Chloe, honey, did you find your keys?” Helen asked, her voice sharp and privileged.

Chloe turned. “No, Mom. I think I left them in your car.”

Helen sighed, a dramatic, irritated sound. “You would lose your head if it weren’t attached.”

That word. Mom.

It tasted like ash in my mouth.