There was a dark circular birthmark with uneven edges, placed exactly where my mother had one that I had seen since childhood.
My hand trembled as I pointed toward it, unable to process what I was seeing.
“That mark, why do you have the same one,” I asked, my voice shaking despite my effort to remain calm.
Eleanor closed her eyes briefly and took a small step backward as if bracing herself for what she was about to say.
“Because I can no longer keep this hidden,” she whispered, her voice breaking under the weight of the truth.
At that moment the room stopped feeling like a place of celebration and began to feel like a trap closing in around me, and I realized that everything I believed was about to collapse.
I did not sit down because my legs refused to obey me, while she slowly lowered herself onto the edge of the bed as if years of silence had suddenly caught up with her.
“Twenty years ago I had a son,” she finally said, each word heavy and deliberate.
At first I felt confusion, then anger, and finally a deep fear that tightened my chest and made it hard to breathe properly.
“What does that have to do with me,” I asked sharply, trying to keep control over my voice.