Three times I call your name in the mirror: “Mother, mother, mother.” 

Nothing happens. 

I close my eyes and pray to a god I no longer believe in, to anyone listening that will hear my pleas: Please, just one small glimpse—the tip of a pinky finger, the curve of your cheek, a wisp of hair at the nape of your neck. It doesn’t have to be big; it just has to be real. 

I open my eyes slowly, scared of seeing you, but even more terrified of seeing myself. 

You’re standing there with my brown hair and my brown eyes and my soft cheeks and it’s like looking at myself 30 years from now. It’s the first time a mirror has ever reflected what I wanted to see, and of course it’s you. 

As I look down from your face that could be mine, my eyes are drawn to a hole in your chest, right where your heart should be. The flesh and muscle and blood surrounding the hole still look healthy, but I can see straight through you. I watch closely to see if you’re breathing, and somehow, your lungs continue to fill with air. I bring my eyes back to your face, but you don’t look like you’re in pain. 

“What happened to your heart?” 

You point at me, and I look down, but I don’t see anything. 

“What happened to your heart?” I ask again. 

You’re still pointing at me, at my chest. I look down again, and it’s still the same.

“What happened to your heart?” I scream. 

You don’t respond, your finger still aimed right at me. I look down, and while nothing on the outside has changed, I feel a strange sensation in my chest.

I realize it’s a second heartbeat, thrumming through my veins.