IT ISN’T UNUSUAL for children to resemble one of their parents in one way or another, be it the shape of their nose, the curve of their smile, or similarities across their eyes and eyebrow region. But Lena wasn’t just similar to her mother, Linda. She was her mirror image.
It was uncanny, almost eerie. Every facial feature, from the shape of her face to the exact shade of her eyes, was a reflection of Linda’s. The same gentle arch of the eyebrows, the same delicate nose, and lips that curled into a knowing smile. If not for the years that separated them, one could have easily mistaken them for twins, rather than mother and daughter.
And then there was Lena’s hair, a breathtaking golden mane that shimmered like sunlight caught in silk. It wasn’t quite blonde, nor was it red—it was something in between, an ethereal hue that defied classification. Unlike other children whose hair grew at a normal pace, Lena’s seemed to have a life of its own, cascading down her back in waves that never seemed to end. No matter how often Linda trimmed it, within weeks, it would flow past her shoulders once more, as if it refused to be tamed.
“Lena, hold still,” Linda would say, brushing through the silky strands each morning. But the child would only giggle, feeling her mother’s fingers glide effortlessly through her golden locks, and then wriggle again.
People often commented on Lena’s hair. Strangers in the shopping centre, relatives seeing Lena for the first time; later, even teachers at school would stop and admire it. “She has the hair of a goddess,” an elderly neighbour once whispered to Linda. “A gift, or perhaps a sign of something special.”
At first, Linda laughed off such remarks. But deep inside, she couldn’t deny the nagging feeling that Lena’s hair, and perhaps even her uncanny resemblance to her, held a significance she couldn’t yet understand. It wasn’t just her appearance—it was the way Lena carried herself, the wisdom in her young eyes, the way she sometimes looked or spoke with an authority beyond her years.
As Lena was growing up, many people from the areas around her home heard about the golden-haired child who was the spitting image of her mother, and wondered if she was an angel in disguise….
But Linda kept her daughter close to her as whatever the world saw in Lena, whatever mysteries lay hidden in the strands of her golden hair, she was first and foremost Linda’s daughter.
And that, Linda said to herself, was all that mattered.
