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.

“She arranged the adoption,” he said.

“Who?” I asked.

“Your mother.”

Silence filled the room.

“She told the clinic the baby had died,” he continued. “Not everyone—just enough people. There was a lawyer. Documents. You were underage… you never consented.”

I stared at him.

“You let me mourn a child who was alive?”