Chapter 19 The Woman in the Photo
A few days later, in the middle of the night, I slipped into my father’s office.
A thought had been gnawing at me for days: I had never actually seen my own birth certificate.
In my previous life, when I needed documents for college, Marissa had insisted on helping. She practically shoved me aside to “handle the paperwork.” I remembered how grateful I’d been, how stupidly touched that she cared.
Now I know better.
Everything she did had a purpose, and none of it was kindness.
The office smelled like leather and my fathers cologne. I went straight to the safe first. If anything important existed, it would be there.
I tried the obvious codes. Marissa’s birthday. Apple’s birthday. No luck. Of course not. That would’ve been too easy.
So I searched everywhere else, drawers, folders, the back of shelves, even behind framed certificates.
Nothing.
No birth certificate.
Not a single legal document with my name on it.
But at the bottom of one drawer, beneath a stack of documents, something caught my eye. A photograph.
It was creased, the edges worn soft with time. Folded and unfolded so many times the paper had started to tear along the lines.
Someone had held onto this picture for years.
I flattened it carefully.
In the photograph, my father stood beside a woman I had never seen, but who looked so much like me it made my breath catch.
They were tall and blond, sunlit and smiling into the camera. Early twenties, carefree, glowing. Their bodies angled toward each other.
I brought the photo closer, studying her face. The curve of her jaw. The shape of her eyes. The faint dimple in her cheek when she smiled. Features I had spent my whole life seeing in the mirror without ever knowing where they came from.
I traced her face with my fingertip.
Was this her?
My mother?
She was beautiful. The kind of beautiful that could’ve stepped straight into the fashion world.
I turned the photo over. In faint pencil were two names: Brandon and Ines.
My chest tightened. So that was her name. Ines.
I snapped a picture of the photo with my phone and carefully placed it back. At least now I had something, some thread to follow.
The next day, I went shopping using my father’s guilt money along with some of my own savings. If I was rebuilding myself in this second life, I needed clothes that fit properly.
I bought myself an entirely new wardrobe. A kind store clerk helped me find pieces that actually flattered my shape.
Five tops, three pairs of pants, three dresses, two skirts, jackets, shoes… everything was mix-and-matchable, feminine and sleek.
In my past life, before everything went to hell, I’d just begun exploring my own style. Clothes that made me feel beautiful.
But I never got to fully grow into it, because then came Payton’s wedding… and everything after.
This time, I kept my distance. I still talked to Payton, texted her, but less.
She noticed, of course. She even asked why I didn’t come over anymore, why I seemed… different since her Aspen trip.
But I brushed it off, told her nothing was wrong, that she hadn’t done anything wrong.
That I was just busy.
And then there was Nick.
He’d sent a few messages - How are you? I heard about Anton, what an idiot.
I hadn’t responded.
Yesterday, he finally asked why I wasn’t answering at all.
Payton must’ve told him what happened with Anton… the whole disaster everyone at school already knew: that something was going on between me and Anton, and then he disappeared into a room with Apple instead.
I didn’t know what to say to Nick.
In my previous life, during senior year, we texted constantly, sharing memes, jokes, and random little things. We were friends, but he was away at college, so we rarely saw each other in person.
Later, when we finally became a couple, he told me something I never forgot.
When he heard I was going to that party with Anton, and it sounded like a date, he snapped. He broke into his parents’ liquor cabinet and drank half a bottle of tequila by himself.
He was in a foul mood, jealous out of his mind.
He just didn’t understand why yet.
I had been jealous too, listening to Payton talk about the girls Nick spent time with in college. Pretending it didn’t bother me. Pretending I didn’t care.
I’d loved him for so long, quietly, hopelessly.
I never thought he could feel the same.
We didn’t become a couple until a few months into my first semester of college.
But the feelings had been there long before either of us had the courage to name them.
After the shopping trip, I wasn’t ready to go home yet, so I headed to a salon across the street.
My current haircut, thick bangs and shoulder-length hair, did nothing for my face. It felt childish, heavy. I wanted the length back, the softness, the effortless flow I remembered having, the kind the woman in the photo had.
The stylist nodded thoughtfully as I explained.
She softened the heavy fringe, added layers so my hair moved instead of sitting like a helmet, and thinned the bangs so they would grow out nicely.
Then she added cool blonde balayage highlights, sunlit streaks that made my natural color look brighter, almost luminous, like it had caught actual summer.
By the time she finished, I barely recognized myself.
Apparently, the difference was noticeable.
The moment I stepped out of the salon, a man approached me.
Polished and professional, he introduced himself as a scout from a modeling agency and immediately launched into compliments about my height, my bone structure, the way my features were “in trend right now,” whatever that meant. He handed me his card, hopeful I would reach out for test photos.
I slid it into my pocket without reacting. I had zero interest in becoming a model.
But this scene was almost identical to the one from my past. When I was thirteen, walking through the mall with Apple and Marissa. An agent had approached me then too, saying the same things, offering the same opportunities.
I’d barely had time to smile before Marissa snatched the card from my hand and crushed it in her fist, muttering that it was a scam. That he wanted to sell me into sex slavery. That people like him hunted na?ve girls.
I’d been terrified. And grateful.
Of course my mother knew best. Of course she was protecting me.
That same evening, Apple “accidentally” left her curling iron on top of my favorite sweater, burning a perfect round hole through the fabric.
Apple had always wanted that kind of attention. To be seen. Chosen.
But she wasn’t the kind of girl agencies stopped in malls for. She was short and curvy, not tall and thin like me.
In my last life, she found another way. Social media. An Instagram model. A fitness and lifestyle influencer. The girl who played violin covers and smiled for millions.