I opened the door, gazing at the face that shared a few similarities with mine, yet was identical to my mother's. Suppressing the urge to slap her, I asked coldly, "Is something the matter? If not, please excuse me."
She was blocking my doorway, preventing me from going downstairs for breakfast. I didn't have the privilege of dining upstairs.
The woman smiled, not moving aside. Instead, she asked, "You don't believe I'm your mother?"
Well, with a question like that, how could I possibly believe her?
Unless I was a fool.
I nodded, avoiding her gaze.
I was afraid that looking at her would tarnish the gentle image of my mother in my heart. This woman before me was far too sharp, far too different. She couldn't possibly be my mother.
This 'Whitney' didn't leave because of my coldness.
