I became a mother at seventeen—and my parents took my baby from me. Now, twenty-one years later, the man living next door looks exactly like the child I lost.

Dark curly hair.
Sharp features.
My chin.

I told myself I was imagining things. People often see what they want to see.

Then he smiled and walked toward me.

“Hi,” he said. “I’m Miles. Looks like we’re neighbors.”

We exchanged a few polite words, but I barely registered any of it.

I went back inside, trembling.

My father was in the kitchen.

I said, “The new neighbor… he looks like me.”

At first, he didn’t react. Then suddenly, he did.

Too fast.
Too intense.

In that moment, something felt off.

Two days later, I found out why.

He had already gone next door. He recognized the last name on a package—the same name as the couple who had adopted my son.

He hadn’t forgotten.

He had just buried the truth.

Three days after the truck arrived, Miles knocked on my door.