Standing by the school’s double glass doors was my former mother-in-law, Evelyn.
Beside her was the little girl—Lizzy. The hair was parted on the left, whereas Junie’s was parted on the right, but the resemblance was a flawless mirror.
Evelyn was the matriarch of a family that demanded absolute perfection. When my ex-husband left me during my deep, post-partum grief, she had been the one to orchestrate the divorce, calling me “unstable” and “unfit.” Now, holding the hand of the grandchild I was told had died, she looked up and met my gaze.
The color drained from her manicured face.
I didn’t think. I didn’t plan. I pushed through the crowd of parents and children, my chest heaving, the world narrowing down to a single point of roaring fury.
“Mom?” Junie asked, tugging at my coat, but I barely felt it.
I stopped right in front of Evelyn. Up close, Lizzy looked up at me with the exact hazel eyes I stared into every morning when waking up Junie.
“You,” I whispered, my voice shaking so violently it felt like it would shatter. “I never imagined this from you. Where did she come from, Evelyn? Who is she?”
Evelyn gripped Lizzy’s shoulder a little too tightly, her eyes darting around the crowded school yard. “Abigail, don’t do this here. Not in front of the children.”
“Do what? Demand to know why the daughter I buried six years ago is standing in front of me holding your hand?” I choked out, tears finally spilling over.
The Confrontation
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