He paused.
“She is your genetic clone.”
The words struck like lightning.
My daughter.
My beautiful little girl.
Had been created from my own genetic material.
Not born from me.
But carrying my DNA.
That was why she looked so much like me.
Why she had my eyes.
Why strangers constantly said she seemed like my twin.
Then I remembered the strangest thing.
Paisley had always hated photographs.
She would turn away from cameras.
She would cover her face.
She once told me:
“I don’t like when people see me.”
I had thought it was toddler nonsense.
Now I understood.
Someone had been teaching her to fear being recognized.
I returned to the house.
Rosalyn was crying.
“Where is my father?”
She looked at me.
“Gone.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is the father of your baby?”
She touched her stomach.
“Trevor.”
“Why?”
“Because I loved him.”
