I remember that day like it was carved into my memory—the car ride, the silence, the tension so heavy I could almost choke on it.
Dad gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his jaw set. I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, staring out the window, my arms folded tight across my chest.
The steady rhythm of the tires against the road didn’t soothe me. It just made the silence scream louder.
Finally, I snapped.
“Why do I have to do this on my day off?” I turned, my voice sharp. “Couldn’t you have taken a taxi or asked a friend?”
Dad’s eyes cut toward me like a knife. His voice was tight, sharp.
“Lucy! How can you say that? Your mother needs help! Is it really too much to ask that you give her a hand packing?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Dad, you know exactly what my relationship with her is like…”
“I know!” he shot back, raising his voice. “You haven’t spoken in over a decade. You’ve always been stubborn—just like her.”
That word—stubborn—hit a nerve. My voice trembled with anger as I fired back.
“Stubborn? She ruined my life, Dad!”
He shook his head. “Don’t exaggerate. She only wanted you to have a good education.”
My chest burned with old memories. “All I ever did was study and follow her plans! I just wanted her to be proud of me, but it was never enough…”
“She did it because she loves you,” he said softly this time, his tone shifting.
I turned away, staring out at the blur of houses and trees. “Funny how my life started to feel better the moment I stopped speaking to her.”
He sighed, his voice heavy. “Lucy…”
“That’s it,” I cut him off coldly. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Let’s just get it over with.”
When we pulled up to my parents’ old house, anger boiled inside me. I slammed the car door and marched up the steps. The smell of dust and old wood hit me the second I stepped inside.
The living room was frozen in time—same furniture, same photographs, but everything felt faded, like a ghost of the past.
Dad followed behind, slower, heavier.
“So, what exactly do we need to take?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay neutral.
Dad fished a folded paper from his pocket and squinted at the small handwriting.
I groaned and snatched it gently. “Let me help.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said, sheepish.
I read the list aloud: “A lamp, some dishes, books, photo albums, and valuables from the safe.”
“Simple enough,” Dad said, heading toward the kitchen.
I climbed the stairs to the bedroom with a bag slung over my shoulder. The air was thick with memories. I grabbed books, photo albums, one after another. It was almost mechanical.
Then I reached the bottom of the list—and froze.
In smaller handwriting, scribbled almost like a warning, were four words: “Do not show Lucy.”
My pulse quickened. My hands tightened on the list. What was I not supposed to see?
“Lucy! I’m done here. Need any help?” Dad’s voice echoed from downstairs.
“No, Dad, I’m almost finished!” I shouted back, my voice a little too high.
The code for the safe was scrawled on the page. My fingers shook as I pressed the numbers. The lock clicked open.
Inside, as expected, was a jewelry box. But behind it… something else.
A small package, wrapped in dust. My hands trembled as I pulled it out. I peeled back the wrapping and my breath caught.
It was a videotape. Old, worn, its black plastic casing scratched.
My heart pounded. Why was this hidden? Why was it not meant for me?
Ignoring the warning, I slipped it into my coat pocket. Whatever this was, I had to know.
“All done?” Dad asked as I came down the stairs.
“Yes. Let’s go,” I replied quickly, clutching my coat. The tape felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.
We drove to the nursing home. My chest tightened at the sight of it—cold, sterile, looming.
Dad glanced at me. “Are you coming in with me?”
I shook my head. “No. You go. I packed everything from the list.”
“But Lucy… she’s your mom,” he said softly, almost pleading.
“Please, Dad. Don’t start. I don’t want to see her. I don’t want to talk to her.”
His sigh was heavy, disappointed. “Fine. Just… remember, she loves you.” He took the bags and walked inside, leaving me alone in the car with guilt gnawing at my chest.
Back home, I wasted no time. I dug out the old VCR, brushed off years of dust, and set it up. My hands shook as I slid the tape in.
The TV flickered, static filling the screen. Then—images appeared.
My parents, young, smiling, full of life. Mom’s laughter echoed faintly. Dad crouched on the floor, arms open, calling to a little girl.
I leaned forward, breath caught in my throat.
The girl looked like me—same hair, same smile. But something was wrong.
Then I heard it.
“Chloe! Come here, Chloe! You’re such a clever girl!” Mom’s voice rang out, warm and loving.
I froze. Chloe?
The girl wasn’t Lucy. She wasn’t me.
My stomach twisted. My head spun. I shut off the TV. My hands trembled violently. Who was Chloe? And who was I?
There was only one person who could answer.
I grabbed my keys and drove, heart racing, mind swirling with questions. The nursing home came into view in a blur of headlights and memories.
Inside, the receptionist looked up with a kind smile. “Hello, may I help you?”
“I need to see my mother,” I said, my voice unsteady.
“What’s her name?”
“Emma.”
Her eyes widened slightly. “Are you… Lucy?”
I froze. “Yes. How do you know?”
She smiled warmly. “Your mom talks about you all the time. She’s asked for you often. It’s so nice to finally meet you.”
A lump formed in my throat. “We… have a complicated relationship.”
“She’ll be thrilled to see you,” the woman said, leading me down the hall.
I stepped into the room. Mom and Dad sat by the window. When they saw me, both froze in shock.
“Lucy!” Mom gasped, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, my love, I’ve missed you so much!” She opened her arms, desperate for a hug.
I stayed still, my face hard. “Mom, I need to talk to you.”
Dad’s eyes flicked from me to her. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” he said gently and slipped out.
I pulled the videotape from my bag and held it up. My voice was sharp. “I found this in your safe. It said, ‘Do not show Lucy.’ Care to explain?”
Her face drained of color. Tears filled her eyes instantly.
“Lucy…” her voice cracked. “I’m so sorry. We never wanted you to find out this way.”
“Find out what?” My heart hammered against my ribs.
Her hands trembled as she clasped them together.
“Chloe… Chloe was our first daughter. She was everything to us. But she died in a car accident when she was just a little girl.” Her voice broke, tears spilling down her face.
My whole body went numb. “I don’t understand. Who am I then?”
She looked at me through her tears. “Lucy… we adopted you. You were just a baby when we brought you home. We loved you from the start. We promised ourselves we’d never tell you. To us, you were—and always will be—our daughter.”
The words hit me like a tidal wave. I staggered back, stunned. My whole life shifted in an instant.
But as I looked at her—fragile, crying, desperate—I felt something else rise in me. Relief.
I stepped forward and wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight for the first time in years.
“You’re my mom. That’s all that matters,” I whispered into her shoulder.
And for the first time in forever, I felt free.