Chapter 1

I was chatting enthusiastically with my classmate from Germany when Mom suddenly chimed in:

"What are you talking about?"

I froze.

Mom was indeed a housewife.

But in her youth, she had spent five years in Germany. Her German was even more fluent than mine.

Yet she couldn't recognize that I had just called her name.

Was she really my mother?

No one knew that Mom had lived in Germany—no one except me.

When I decided to study abroad in Germany, I started learning German in advance.

There was one word I kept mispronouncing no matter how many times I tried.

While trimming vegetables, Mom corrected my pronunciation with perfect, fluent German.

I asked her how she knew German.

She said she'd spent a few years in Germany and even had a name there—"Elara."

I wanted to ask more, but she seemed reluctant to discuss it.

I didn't think much of it at the time and gradually forgot about it.

Until today, when my German classmate called. Halfway through our conversation, I went to get some water.

Passing through the living room, I suddenly felt playful and called out "Elara."

She didn't react at all.

I called again, a bit louder this time.

She looked up at me:

"What are you saying? Finished chatting with your friend?"

I stood frozen.

Her German was so good—how could she not understand my conversation with my classmate?

And even if her German had gotten rusty over time, how could she forget her own name?

I stared at her for a few seconds.

She lowered her head to peel an apple, her knife technique skilled, the peel coming off in one long, continuous strip.

That was her habit. Nothing wrong there.

On her middle finger was a faint scar, left there when I was six years old.

The finger matched too, but something felt off. I just couldn't put my finger on what.

She noticed my gaze and looked up:

"Hurry and eat. I made your favorite chocolate nut cake."

I sat at the dining table, my heart pounding.

"Mom, did you put peanuts in it? I'm allergic to peanuts."

She glanced up at me, her tone calm:

"Didn't your allergy clear up? Peanuts add texture to nut cake."

I exhaled in relief.

If she weren't my mom, hearing me mention a peanut allergy would have made her say something like "Oh shoot, I forgot you can't eat peanuts."

But she remembered that my allergy had cleared up two years ago.

I silently laughed at myself for being paranoid.

Dad emerged from his room, and his eyes lit up when he saw the chocolate nut cake.

"Chocolate nut cake again! Millia's favorite."

He cut me a large slice.

I smiled and took a bite.

The cake was delicious, but my smile froze on my face.

Something was wrong! Completely wrong!

She wasn't my mother!