The last time I saw my first love was on my 17th birthday—thirty years later, a woman who looked exactly like her stepped into my yard

For thirty years, I hated my birthday. It was the day my first love died. Or so I believed. Then a young woman who looked exactly like Lily walked into my yard holding a video, and within seconds, the life I’d spent decades grieving began to unravel.

I turned forty-seven last week, and for thirty years I’ve kept myself occupied every birthday.