The last time my mother looked at me with anything that resembled affection, I was too young to remember it.

At least, that’s what Grandma used to tell me whenever she caught me staring too long at the faded family photographs lining the hallway walls.

In every picture, there was always a version of me smiling beside my twin sister, Elena. We had the same chestnut-brown hair, the same golden-brown eyes, and the same dimples that appeared whenever we laughed. To strangers, we were identical.

But photographs lied.

Because even then, before life had taught me the difference between being loved and being tolerated, Elena had always shined brighter.

And I had always known it.

The Texas sun poured through the windows of Grandma’s bakery as I arranged a fresh tray of cinnamon rolls inside the display case.

The smell of sugar and vanilla wrapped around me like a familiar blanket.

Most people hated routine.

I loved it.

Routine didn’t disappoint you. Routine didn’t leave.

Routine didn’t make promises it never intended to keep.

I glanced at the clock hanging above the register.

Six-thirty in the evening. Almost closing time.

The bakery was nearly empty except for an elderly couple sharing coffee by the window.

Grandma stood behind the counter, counting the day’s earnings while humming an old country song.

At seventy-two years old, she still worked harder than people half her age. “You’ve been staring at that clock for ten minutes,” she said without looking up. I smiled.

“I have not.” “You have.”

“I was checking the time.” “Ten times?”

I laughed softly. “Okay, maybe twice.”

Grandma finally looked up, her silver hair escaping the loose bun at the back of her head. “You nervous about tomorrow?”

The smile faded from my face. A little.

Tomorrow was my twenty-third birthday.

Most people my age celebrated birthdays with parties, expensive dinners, or vacations. I usually celebrated mine with Grandma, a chocolate cake, and a movie.

And honestly?

That had always been enough.

Or at least I convinced myself it was. “I don’t know,” I admitted.

Grandma gave me a knowing look.

“You were hoping she’d call.”

The knot in my chest tightened immediately. I hated how easily she could read me.

I looked away. “No.”

“Olivia.” I sighed. “Maybe.”

There was no point lying to her. Grandma knew me better than anyone. Even better than my own mother.

Especially better than my own mother.

Andrea Jenkins hadn’t called me on my birthday in years. Not when I turned sixteen.

Not when I graduated high school.

Not when I got accepted into college before deciding I couldn’t afford it. Not once.

Yet every year, some stubborn little part of me waited anyway.

Because no matter how old I became, a small piece of me still wanted to be chosen. Still wanted to matter.

Still wanted to hear my mother say she missed me.

Grandma walked around the counter and squeezed my shoulder.

“Sweetheart.”

I swallowed hard. “It’s okay.”

“No, it isn’t.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

The silence that followed felt heavier than I intended. Grandma’s expression softened.

“No,” she agreed quietly. “It isn’t.” I hated talking about my mother.

Because talking about her meant remembering. And remembering hurt.

When I was six years old, my father died. Everything changed after that.

Mom stopped smiling. Stopped laughing.

Stopped looking at me the way mothers were supposed to look at their children. A year later, she sent me away to Texas.

Just me. Not Elena.

Never Elena.

I still remembered standing beside my suitcase while Mom explained that it would be good for me.

That Grandma could take care of me.

That Los Angeles wasn’t the right place anymore. I remembered believing her.

Children always believe their parents.

It took years before I realized she hadn’t sent me away because she thought it was best. She had sent me away because she didn’t want me around.

And that realization had hurt far more than leaving ever did. The bell above the bakery door chimed.

A customer entered.

I quickly pushed the memories away and smiled. “Good evening. Welcome to—”

The words died in my throat.

The woman standing in the doorway looked strangely familiar. Tall.

Elegant.

Designer handbag.

Expensive sunglasses resting on top of perfectly styled blonde hair. She couldn’t have been older than thirty.

Her eyes swept across the bakery before landing on me. Then they widened.

For a second, neither of us spoke.

Something about her expression unsettled me.

Like she knew me. Or thought she did.

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “I thought you were someone else.” I forced a smile.

“No problem.”

She stared for another moment before shaking her head and walking away. A strange feeling lingered long after she left.

As if something important had just brushed past me without stopping. I didn’t know then that I would never see her again.

And I certainly didn’t know that she would unknowingly trigger a chain of events capable of destroying everything I thought I knew about my life.

By seven o’clock, the bakery was closed.

Grandma and I cleaned up together before heading home. The drive was short.

The conversation was comfortable. Normal.

Looking back now, I think that’s what hurts the most. How normal everything felt before it all fell apart.

After dinner, I curled up on the couch with a book while Grandma watched television. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked steadily.

Eight o’clock. Nine o’clock. Nine-fifteen.

My phone buzzed. I barely looked up. Probably Chloe.

My best friend had a habit of sending random voice notes at ridiculous hours. I picked up the phone.

Then froze.

The number wasn’t saved. But I knew it.

Some numbers become scars. You don’t forget them.

My heartbeat slowed. Then accelerated.

Then stopped entirely. “Grandma,” I whispered. She looked up immediately. “What is it?”

I stared at the screen. Incoming Call.

Andrea Jenkins. My mother.

For a moment, I wondered if I was imagining it. Because she never called.

Never.

Not for birthdays. Not for holidays.

Not for emergencies. Nothing.

Yet there it was. Her name.

Her number. Her call.

The phone continued ringing. Grandma’s face had gone pale. “Answer it,” she said softly.

I couldn’t move.

A thousand questions crashed through my mind at once. Why now?

What happened? Was Elena okay? Was someone sick?

Was Mom finally ready to be my mother? The ringing stopped.

Relief and disappointment hit me simultaneously. Then the phone buzzed again.

A second call.

I stared at it for three long seconds before finally answering. “Hello?”

Silence.

Then a voice I hadn’t heard in years. “Olivia.”

My throat tightened.

Mom sounded exactly the same. Cold.

Controlled. Distant.

As though seventeen years had passed in a single afternoon. I swallowed.

“Mom.”

She didn’t ask how I was. Didn’t ask about Grandma. Didn’t ask anything at all.

Instead, she said four words that made my blood run cold. “Your sister is missing.”

Everything inside me froze. The room.

The clock.

The air in my lungs.

For a moment, I couldn’t even breathe.

And then my mother’s next sentence shattered the rest of my world. “I need you back in Los Angeles immediately.”