He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and grins. “It’s a such a surprise. Like Christmas. Or New Year’s. A big surprise. But one I feel like I’ve been waiting for my whole life. You two—you’re like two ghosts. Ghosts of your mothers. Ghosts of…” He pauses. “Ghosts of myself.”

I can’t decide if I’m a little freaked out right now or if this is cool. My foot starts tapping nervously on the tile floor of his office. Is this what I wanted?

“Tell me everything,” he says. Mattie returns the picture, and he tucks them both back into his wallet. Then he takes our hands—one in each of his large, brown ones. The hand that is holding mine has a scar across the back that looks like a burn. Was it from a fire under the Amazon skies? The pressure of his grip is strangely comforting.

“How did you get here? Are you well? How do you know each other? What are you doing here? How did you find me? How are you? Do you need breakfast?”

When he talks, each of his words is short, like he can’t wait to get to the next one. The H’s are harsh and strange. He doesn’t sound as much like Ruben Hernandez as I thought he would. Frank Gómez has more wrinkles around his eyes than he did when the photo I have was taken. But even with the lines, the eyes are as familiar as my own. Or Mattie’s. His hair is curly, almost puffy. He needs a trim. Around the ears, he has bits of gray. But not as much as Mom does when she’s overdue for a trip to her salon.

“Now,” he says, “Matilde.” He looks at Mattie, saying her name with a lilt. “You are, what? Thirteen?”

A red glow seeps into her face. “Next month.” She’s smiling.

He turns to me. “And Mercedes.” He gently rolls the R in my name and the C is soft. “Let me see. You’re twelve. Do I have that right?” He smiles. “Where are you mothers? Where is Valeria? Where is Jennifer?” He looks around the little office as if our moms are hiding in the filing cabinet. “I would love to see them. You each look like your mother. They were beautiful, both of them. Like you. You are both beautiful.” His voice catches like a snag in a sweater. “Are you really here? Matilde? Mercedes? Mis hijas perdidas.”