Natalia
The meal began simply enough, with Alexander asking basic questions about my life in foster care and how I’d ended up in Ashmoor. I found myself eager to share, hungry for any connection to the family I’d never known I had.
“You were named Lila,” Alexander said, cutting into his roast. “After your mother’s grandmother.”
Lila. It felt strange to hear the name I was supposed to have but never did. I preferred Natalia, though.
“What was she like? My mother?” I asked.
Alexander’s expression softened. “Beautiful. Fierce. She had your stubborn streak.” He gestured to a portrait on the far wall. “That’s her over there.”
I turned to look and felt my breath catch. The woman in the painting could have been me with different hair. She was stunning, though, far more beautiful than I ever
