The nurse carefully placed the babies into her arms, one wrapped in blue, the other in white.
And then Grandma froze.
Completely motionless.
Her eyes slowly lifted toward my mother standing beside me.
“I know whose they are,” she whispered.
My mother gripped my arm so tightly it hurt.
Because the babies looked exactly like my grandfather.
Not vaguely. Not in the way families imagine similarities because they want to believe them.
Exactly.
The same deep-set eyes. The same stubborn little mouth. Even the strange calm expression he always carried in photographs, like he understood something nobody else did.
One of the twins even had the tiny crease near his chin that my grandfather had passed down to my uncle and later to his son.
