When I was 11, my mom died in a freak accident while we were at the beach. She was an excellent swimmer

— the kind of person who could glide through waves like she belonged in the ocean. But that day, a rip

tide caught her, and just like that, she was gone. My dad was devastated. Life after her was quiet, a little colder, and never quite the same.

Last month, while I was in Paris for work, I was sipping coffee at a street café when I saw a woman who

looked exactly like her not just similar, but uncannily so. Same eyes. Same posture. Even the same way

she tucked her hair behind her ear. I approached her, heart pounding, and told her everything.

I showed her a picture of my mom. She looked at it for a long time, then looked at me.And she smiled.

She told me she had a twin sister. They were separated at birth and adopted by different families.

Years ago, she said, she had reached out to her sister to my mom and they had met once.

But something didn’t click. They both agreed not to keep in touch. She hugged me gently, said she was sorry for my loss,

and then, with a soft pat on my shoulder, she walked away into the crowd. I never saw her again.And I never told my dad.