The first person to tell me my daughter looked nothing like me did it before I had even been stitched up.

Three years later. October 2029.

The autumn leaves were turning deep shades of crimson and gold across the hills of central Ohio.

I stood in the doorway of the nursery—now transformed into a little girl's bedroom with a small white twin bed, bookshelves filled with fairy tales, and framed watercolor paintings on the lavender walls.

Four-year-old Sadie was sitting on the rug in front of a full-length mirror.

She was wearing a little blue dress, trying to tie her own shoes, her tongue sticking out slightly in intense concentration.

I walked softly into the room and sat down on the rug behind her, watching our reflection in the glass.

Sadie stopped playing with her shoelaces. She looked up into the mirror, staring at our two faces standing side by side.

"Mommy?" Sadie asked, her small voice curious and thoughtful.

"Yes, my love?" I replied, resting my chin gently on her shoulder.

Sadie pointed her finger at the mirror, touching the glass where her reflection met mine.

"Grandma Marjorie says I have Daddy’s eyes," Sadie said, tilting her head. "And Aunt Brianna says I have Daddy’s nose."

I smiled softly in the reflection, brushing a curl of dark hair away from her forehead. "They're right. You do look a lot like your daddy."

Sadie turned around in my lap, sitting up straight, looking directly into my eyes with an uncanny, ancient seriousness.

She raised her small right hand, reached up, and gently touched my cheek with her fingers.

Then she raised her left hand and gently tugged her own left earlobe.

"Where do I have you, Mommy?" Sadie asked quietly.

My eyes filled with warm, happy tears.

I reached out, took her small hand in mine, and placed her palm flat against the center of my chest, right over my beating heart.

Then I moved her hand and placed it flat against her own small chest.

"You have my heart, sweet girl," I whispered, kissing her forehead. "You have my voice. You have my laughter. You have the blood of my mother running through your veins, and the love of a thousand generations living inside your soul."

Sadie smiled—a bright, radiant, incredible smile that lit up the entire room.

She wrapped her tiny arms tightly around my neck, leaning her head against my collarbone, her small chest rising and falling against mine in perfect, effortless harmony.

Outside the window, a soft autumn wind blew through the maple trees, carrying golden leaves across the sky.

I held my daughter close, looking into the mirror one last time.

I didn't see an incubator. I didn't see a surrogate. I didn't see a shadow.

I saw a mother.