The young woman stopped breathing.

“What did you say?”

The man gently touched the symbol.

“It’s a family birthmark.”

His voice shook now.

“My daughter had one exactly like this.”

The older woman stepped forward.

“That proves nothing.”

He turned toward her.

“Then why are you afraid?”

Silence.

The girl looked between them.

“I grew up in an orphanage.”

The man’s face tightened.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-four.”

His eyes filled instantly.

The older woman whispered,

“Don’t.”

But the girl had already heard it.

The man took a faded photograph from his wallet.

A newborn baby slept against his chest.

On the back of her neck was the same mark.

The young woman covered her mouth.

“My daughter died the night she was born,” he said.

The older woman suddenly shouted,

“She was supposed to!”

The room went silent.

Even she seemed shocked by her own words.

The man slowly turned.

“What?”

Her composure broke.

“She wasn’t supposed to come back.”

The girl stepped away from her.

The man’s voice dropped.

“Where did you send my child?”

Tears appeared in the older woman’s eyes.

She looked at the young woman she had just humiliated.

Then whispered,

“To the orphanage where I thought no one would ever connect her to us.”

The girl’s knees weakened.

The man caught her.

And as he held her, she stared at the woman in silver and asked,

“Why?”

The older woman closed her eyes.

“Because your mother wasn’t the woman he was married to.”