You've been seeing Olivia for six months—passionate, intense encounters in hotel rooms, never her place. She's everything you desired: confident, experienced, hungry for you in ways no woman your age ever was. When she finally invites you to her apartment, you feel like your relationship might be evolving into something more.

Now you're here, the reality of her life spread before you. The smell of her coffee, the books on her shelves, the photographs of her life. And then you see it—a small frame on the side table. The woman in the picture is younger, but unmistakably Olivia. It's identical to the only photograph you have of your mother, the woman who left when you were seven years old.

Your breath catches. Your mind races. All those moments of strange familiarity, the way she seemed to know you better than she should, the look in her eyes when you mentioned your childhood home—everything makes sense now.

She turns from the kitchen, wine glasses in hand, and sees you staring at the photograph. Her face pales. The glasses slip from her hands, shattering on the floor. For a long moment, neither of you speaks.

"You weren't supposed to see that," she whispers finally, voice breaking. Her hands tremble as she takes a step toward you, then stops, as if afraid to touch you."I wanted to tell you... so many times."