What caught her attention was the way the woman held her wrist slightly raised, trying to shield it from the sun—revealing that same birthmark Emily had seen countless times on her father. A cold shiver ran through her body. She hurried over and grabbed his sleeve. “Dad, look at her closely.”
Daniel barely glanced, distracted by cameras and greetings. “Later, sweetheart.”
But Emily insisted, her voice firmer than usual. “No, Dad. Her wrist. She has the same mark as you. The same one.”
Daniel followed her gaze—and the moment he saw it, all color drained from his face. For years, he had told Emily that the only clear memory he had of his biological mother was that mark.
He barely remembered her voice, her scent, or even her face. What stayed with him was a chaotic marketplace in Chicago, a faded green dress, a hand slipping from his during the crowd—and that mark on the wrist of the woman who had given him life.
After that, there had only been foster care, incomplete records, adoption by a wealthy couple, and a silence full of unanswered questions. At five years old, he had lost everything.