She looks like the woman in my old candy frame—as if she stepped out of it and into the world. It looks just like her. Just like her.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and straighten my back.

Ronan is in front of me. “I’m sorry about bragging so much. It’s okay, Delsie. I’ll spot you some points.”

I shake my head.

“No, it’s okay.”

“I would never get mad about mini golf.” I look around him. “It’s that lady.” I swallow. “I think she’s my mom.”

Ronan turns and looks at her. “You think so? Are those her kids?”

“I . . . don’t know. We haven’t heard from her in a long, long time. I mean . . . I guess they could be her kids.”

“But you don’t know that she’s your mom, right? Just a guess?”

“I feel like she is. She looks just like her picture. And . . .” The words catch in my throat. “She looks just like me.” I swallow again, hard. “Should I go talk to her?”

“Sure. Because if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”

Ronan is good at cutting to the truth.

Looking down at my golf ball, I get an idea. I toss the ball into the bushes near her. And then I run over.

And standing in front of her makes my stomach roll over and over. I lock eyes with her and watch to see if she recognizes me. How could someone not recognize her own baby?

“Hello,” she says.

“Hi. Oh. Sorry. I just came to get my ball.” I bend over and reach into the bushes to get it, and when I stand back up, I lock eyes with her again. Hoping for an answer in her face.

“May I help you? Do you need something?” she asks, and the sound of her voice is like Esme’s—all sweet and let-me-help-you. I look at her kids and wonder if I have two sisters.

“Are you my momma?” I ask.

One eye squints. “Pardon me?”

“Are you my momma? Is it you?” I squeak like a little kid.

Her lips press together and her eyes get sad and she shakes her head a bit. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. I’m not your momma. I have these two girls but haven’t had any other children besides them.” By this time, her two girls are staring at me like I am trying to steal their favorite thing.

“Are you sure?” I ask, starting to cry. “Because you look just like the picture, and you look just like me. Or I look like you . . . so I thought that maybe . . . I thought you could be . . .”

“I’m not. Really. I’m very sorry. But whoever is your mom, she is very lucky.”

“Very lucky,” I mumble. “Very lucky.” I drop my golf club and run. I run so fast that Ronan hasn’t got a chance of catching me.

• • •

I find myself standing in front of Aimee’s. Because it’s Saturday, I’m sure she has no rehearsal. I knock on the door.