“I’m so glad to see you!” I say, hugging him hard.

“It was your mom’s idea,” he says before kissing me on the forehead.

“How nice of her,” I say without feeling. We’re fine, Mom and I, but that’s all we are. A year ago, I thought I’d move past everything that happened eventually, but somehow, it manages to stick with me. “Let’s go,” I say to Sean, not wanting to talk about my mom. “I have about five million pictures to show you.”

Somehow Mom makes the day about her anyway.

Her car isn’t out front, and when we walk into the house, I feel it immediately. There’s something about the stillness. And it’s stale, like no doors have been opened in a while. My stomach clenches, and in the periphery, I see Ella put her hand on her belly. The phone rings; it’s Bet.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure, but I think…” I begin, looking at Ella.

She nods. “I think so, too.”

“Bet, she’s gone,” I say into the phone. “Mom’s gone.”

To my beautiful daughters—

Eighteen years and nine months ago, I made the best decision of my life. It gave me purpose: It gave me you. Since then, I’ve made some bad choices, and there’s only one way to make things right.

I’m turning myself in to the FBI.

I used to live in fear that someone would expose you as clones. After Maggie, I realized something: They are fascinated by you, but they need me. You are someone else’s successes; they want their own.

I didn’t blackmail Maggie in Colorado—I didn’t have a recorder. I went along with her not out of curiosity but out of fear. I’m so sorry I couldn’t reach you, Lizzie. I know you must have been terrified.

Ultimately, I made a deal with Maggie that I would help with her research… but not until you three turned eighteen. I wanted to make sure that if anything happened to me, you’d be safe from the system. But I had no intention of helping her. I needed to finish my paper and publish, then turn myself in before she had the chance. That would take away her leverage.

(Just in case, I paid one of Maggie’s research assistants to steal a few incriminating files that would surely send her to prison. Maggie is much too interested in self-preservation to bother you again, but if someone else ever did, you have your ironclad identities to refute their claims.)

I’ve attached my manuscript titled “The Originals: Raising Clones Together, as Individuals.” In it, I generally share the formula for creating human clones, but it’s nothing that science doesn’t know already. I chronicle the development of three female clones until their eventual deaths at the ages of six, eight, and nine. This is the only thing that is untrue in the study, but I wanted you to be protected.

No one will know you exist.

The paper will be published in next month’s Science journal, and will be attributed to me, Sonya Bauer, and Dr. Allen Jovovich. The name “Best” will never be mentioned.

Mason is available for assistance, and please contact me only through him, for your safety. I am confident that there will be a day when we’ll be reunited. Until then, please know that I love you more than anything. More than living. And though some of you may still not believe this, I love you more than science.

Mom

Five months later, I proudly walk across the Woodbury stage wearing a cap and gown to accept my diploma. Sean’s mom and Betsey clap for me from the front row, and I’m not sure, but I’ll bet Mason’s watching from the shadows, where I’m realizing he prefers to be. Sean’s beaming from the K section, waiting his turn. Bet graduated last week; we’ll race to Ella’s ceremony after this.

“Is that your sister?” Alison asks after it’s all over, pointing. I smile at the furious waver on the other side of the sea of people. “Yep,” I say proudly. “That’s Bet.”

“I love her hair,” Alison says. “Oh my god, I hope she likes me. I mean, sharing a quad with three sisters is going to be—”

“Awesome,” I say, side-squeezing her. “Everything about Berkeley is going to be amazing.”

Especially since Sean will be there, too.

I rush through the crowd and get crushed by hugs the second I reach Harper, Betsey, and Sean.

“Come on, you guys, we need to go!” I say.

“You need your moment, too, honey,” Harper says. “This is your moment.” I love how much she’s stepped up since Mom left; she and Mason are like weird, unmarried surrogate parents. She’s in charge of making sure I’m fed, while he’s in charge of doling out funds from the trust Mom set up, and looking protectively over my shoulder.

Harper tells Sean and me to hold still for a picture, and I know from the way she smiles at the screen afterward that it’s going to be a framer. Finally, I get everyone to move it already; we walk to Harper’s car, Sean and me swinging our clasped hands.

“Congratulations,” he says, kissing my knuckles.

“Same to you, graduate,” I say, nudging him.

We’re almost to the car when, out of nowhere, Mason appears.

“Hello, Lizzie,” he says. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m happy to be here,” he says, pulling something from his pocket. “But also, I wanted to give you this.” He holds out a small box; my stomach flips, because I’m pretty sure I know who it’s from.

“Mom?” I ask quietly. He nods once before patting me on the shoulder and turning and walking away.

“That guy’s so weird,” Sean says when Mason’s out of earshot.

“Yeah,” I say, “but he’s pretty great, too.”

In the car, I open the box and find a necklace with a tiny bird pendant inside. In a flash, a memory triggers: It’s of Mom singing me to sleep when I was little. She’d always try for “Twinkle, Twinkle” or “Rock-a-Bye Baby,” but I’d say, “No, sing ‘Three Little Birdies.’ ”

“That’s a silly one,” she’d protest, embarrassed by her made-up song.

“It’s the only one I like,” I’d say. And eventually, always, she’d sing.

“Pretty,” Sean says, about the necklace.

“Yeah, it is,” I say, wiping away a tear before he sees. Betsey looks back at the necklace in my hands, then smiles.

“Like the song, right?” she asks.

“Like the song.”

From the front seat, Betsey starts humming quietly. After all these years, after everything, I still remember the lyrics.

Little birds, little birds in a line—count them:

One, two, three!

Painted blue, sitting on a vine—count: one, two, three!

One eats worms; Two sings high; Three chases bees and butterflies.

Little birds, little birds in a row; you look the same but you’re not, oh,

Fly, little birdies, fly.