I enter one of the many sitting rooms. I refer to this room as the waiting room, because this is where most visitors are taken.
I try not to react as the woman who claims to be my mother stands. I don’t like how I recognize myself in her dark eyes. The bow of her lips is a replica of mine. She’s tall, especially for a woman. Her slight build doesn’t make her look timid or tame. She holds herself with a fierceness that reminds me of a lioness.
"What do you want?" I ask.
She bristles. Her reaction is instant. "That’s how you greet your mother?" Hurt flows quietly under her words; I can detect the pain.
"You claim to be my mother," I answer. It’s obvious that she’s my mother from her features alone, but I also remember her. She’s older, but she is my mother.