Chapter 122: Undeniable Resemblance
Chapter 122: Undeniable Resemblance
ABEL DONOVAN
I drove into the Donovan residence, the familiar tree-lined driveway bringing with it a mixture of comfort and apprehension. Whatever my mother wanted to discuss with such urgency had my mind spinning through possibilities, none of them good.
I parked my car in the garage beside my father's sedan and got out, taking a moment to look at the house I'd grown up in. The stately colonial-style mansion looked the same as always—perfectly maintained, imposing, projecting success and old money.
I walked toward the front entrance and rang the bell, waiting for someone to open the door even though I technically still had keys. It felt more appropriate to announce my arrival rather than just walk in unannounced.
The door swung open within seconds, revealing my mother. Elena smiled widely at me, her expression a mixture of relief and satisfaction.
"You're here. Finally!" she said, stepping back to let me enter. "I thought you wouldn't take my message seriously and would come here late, making me wait."
I frowned as she turned and walked further into the house, and I followed her automatically, my eyes scanning our surroundings as we moved through the familiar halls.
"What do you mean?" I asked, the questions tumbling out hurriedly as concern spiked through me. "Is something wrong? Is Dad hurt? What happened?"
Everything around us appeared cool and calm—no panic, no people rushing around, no signs of any emergency. The house maintained its usual serene atmosphere, which only confused me more about the urgency of her summons.
"No, Abel!" Elena said, turning to look at me with an expression that suggested I was being ridiculous. "Your father is fine. He's hale and hearty, probably in his study working on something right now."
She paused, then added with a slightly wounded tone, "You're not even worried about me. What if I was the one who was sick? What if I was the one who needed help?"
She pulled what I recognized as her practiced sorrowful expression, the one she'd used since I was a child to make me feel guilty about not paying enough attention to her needs.
I sighed, my initial spike of worry dissipating into mild exasperation. "I've seen you, Mom. I'm looking at you right now. I can clearly tell you're fine. And you texted me yourself, which means you were well enough to use your phone and articulate the message. So clearly you're okay."
Elena rolled her eyes dramatically and kept walking, leading me deeper into the house.
"I wanted to speak with you privately, that's why I called," she explained. "Your father is fine and currently in his study room working on some business matters. He doesn't need to be involved in this conversation."
She stopped at the base of the grand staircase and looked up toward the second floor, her expression shifting to something more serious, more calculated.
"Let's go to my room and discuss this properly," she said. "Where we won't be interrupted or overheard."
I looked at her more carefully, taking in her expression. It was serious and urgent, carrying a weight that made my stomach tighten with renewed concern. Without waiting for my agreement, she began climbing the stairs, and I had no choice but to follow her.
"You called me over because you wanted to speak with me?" I asked, unable to keep the whining note out of my voice. "And you made it seem so urgent, like there was some kind of emergency. Is whatever you want to discuss really that urgent?"
The guilt about leaving Flora sitting in my house, disappointed and probably hurt, nagged at me. I'd rushed out on her, left her breakfast uneaten, refused her strange drink, all because I thought my mother needed me for something serious.
"Yes, it is urgent, Abel," Elena said firmly, not looking back at me as she continued up the stairs. "Were you busy? It's not like I get to talk to my own son every day anymore. The least you can do is honor my call when I actually reach out."
She reached the top of the stairs and turned to look at me, her expression pointed.
"Were you busy?" she asked again, probing for details, clearly wanting to know what I'd been doing that made me sound so reluctant.
I sighed heavily. "Not really. I was with Flora. We were supposed to spend time together today since it's my free day—one of the few I've had lately. She's a bit annoyed that I had to ditch her to come here."
Mom opened her bedroom door and gestured for me to enter, her expression softening slightly at the mention of Flora.
I walked into the room, and the familiar scent immediately hit me—a mixture of my mother's perfume, the specific laundry detergent they used on the bedding, and something else indefinable that I'd always associated with this space. It was the scent of home, of childhood, of safety and comfort.
My body responded automatically, muscles relaxing slightly, tension easing from my shoulders. I was used to this scent. These were my parents, my safe haven, the people who'd raised me and protected me. It was completely normal for my body to feel relaxed in response to these familiar sensory cues.
Nostalgia washed over me in a gentle wave.
I took a seat in one of the comfortable armchairs near the window while my mother came over and sat beside me on the matching chair, angling her body to face me directly.
"I hope Flora understands that family emergencies take priority," she said, her tone carrying that particular inflection that suggested she was about to launch into advice I probably didn't want. "And yes, you should spend more time with her. Make it a priority. And you need to get more involved in the wedding preparation so things can move faster. You've only been talking about getting married for months now, but I haven't seen any actual action, any real progress."
She was scolding me, her voice taking on that maternal tone of disappointment.
"Is this what I'm here for?" I asked, feeling my irritation rise. "To be scolded about my relationship and wedding timeline? About grandchildren and marriage and all the things you're always bringing up?"
Elena's face changed immediately, her expression shifting as she bit her lip nervously. The scolding tone disappeared, replaced by something more uncertain, more anxious.
The change was so dramatic that it made me alarmed.
"What is the problem, Mom?" I asked, sitting forward, my full attention now engaged. "What's really going on?"
"It's about Anna!" she said suddenly, dropping the name like a bomb into the conversation.
I frowned, then sighed deeply, feeling disappointment settle over me like a heavy blanket. Of course it was about Anna. Everything lately seemed to circle back to my ex-wife.
"And her daughter," Elena added quickly, and that addition made me look up sharply, meeting her eyes with renewed attention.
"What about them?" I said, trying to keep my voice neutral even as my pulse quickened. "Mom, Anna isn't in my life anymore. She made her choices, I made mine, and I don't want to concern myself with her or her personal life. We're divorced. It's over. Done."
"No, it's not about your relationship with her," Elena said, waving away my objection impatiently. "It's about her child. Hermione."
She paused, letting the name hang in the air between us.
"She looks so much like you, Abel," Elena continued, her voice carrying absolute certainty. "So much. I couldn't stop thinking about it after that party, after seeing her up on that stage. The resemblance was... striking."
"What?" I asked, the word coming out more sharply than I'd intended.
"Yes," Elena insisted, leaning forward, her intensity increasing. "I'm your mother. I gave birth to you. I raised you from when you were a baby, watched you grow through every stage of development. I know your features better than anyone else in the world. And Hermione looks like a mixture of you and Anna. She has your eyes, your smile, the shape of your face. She looks so much like you that I couldn't believe I didn't see it immediately at the party."
She took a breath, then added, "Even your father agrees. When I showed him her picture—the ones from the party that are all over social media now—he saw it too. The resemblance is undeniable."
I sighed, rubbing my hand over my face. Michael had said the same thing, hadn't he? Multiple times. He'd pointed out the resemblance, made comments about how much Hermione looked like me, seemed almost puzzled that I wasn't seeing what was apparently obvious to everyone else.
"No, Mom, it's not like that," I said, trying to inject certainty into my voice even as doubt crept in around the edges. "You're just confused. She looks like Anna, not me. She's Anna's daughter from... from her affairs. She's not my child."
I trailed off, squinting at my mother, suddenly understanding where this conversation was heading.
"Wait... Mom, where are you going with this?" I asked slowly. "What are you actually suggesting?"
"I think Hermione is your child," Elena said bluntly, her voice carrying no uncertainty, no room for doubt. "You are her father, Abel. That little girl is your daughter."