times.
On someone else.
Someone who had held my hand when I was sick.
Someone who sang to me when thunderstorms scared me.
Someone whose voice I still remembered after all these years.
My mother.
I stepped backward.
“No…”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“Travis…”
“No.”
My voice cracked.
“That’s impossible.”
She looked at me with tears forming in her eyes.
“I wanted to tell you sooner.”
“Why do you have that mark?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
And that silence terrified me more than any words could have.
Finally, she whispered:
“Because I am not the woman you think I am.”
My breathing stopped.
“What does that mean?”
She walked closer.
“Your mother never died the way you were told.”
The words hit me harder than anything I had ever experienced.
I stared at her.
My entire body went cold.
“My mother died when I was seven.”
Eleanor shook her head.
