They looked almost identical.
Same blonde hair, same green eyes, and same narrow face.
One boy had his arm around the other.
On the back, written in faded ink, were two names.
Leo and Jake.
My stomach dropped.
He pointed to the boy on the right.
“This is Leo.”
Then he touched his own chest.
“My name is Jake.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
His face collapsed.
“Monica—”
“No.”
I looked at the photograph again.
The blonde curls.
The eyes and the smile.
Everything I had recognized.
Everything I had trusted.
“You are Leo.”
“I’m not.”
I pulled my hands away.
Behind us, someone began crying.
My mother stood.
“What is happening?”
Jake turned toward the congregation.
His voice broke.
“I have lied to all of you.”
The priest stepped closer.
“Perhaps we should pause.”
“No,” I said.
My voice sounded strange.
I looked at Jake.
“You started this here. Finish it here.”
He nodded.
He faced me again.
“Leo was my cousin.”
I could barely breathe.
“When his family moved away, they ended up living next door to mine. We were close in age, and people often thought we were brothers. We looked alike. We became close.”
“You knew about me.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“He talked about you.”
My throat tightened.
“He remembered?”
“Always.”
