Emma stared, every rational part of her mind fighting the wild, treacherous hope that rose in her chest like a tidal wave. It could be a coincidence. Kids look alike all the time. Freckles repeat. Eyes repeat. DNA does not care about broken hearts.

But then the shorter boy shifted under her intense gaze, and she saw it: a thin, white scar just above his right eyebrow, shaped like a tiny crescent moon. Liam had gotten the same scar from falling off his bike in the driveway when he was five. She had held him, sobbing, as the doctor put in three tiny stitches.