Twenty years after my parents rejected me, I decided to go back.
I thought I was returning to show them that I had survived without them. I wanted them to see the woman they had abandoned. I wanted them to understand that the frightened fifteen-year-old girl they had thrown into the street had become someone they could never look down on again.
I arrived in a black Mercedes and stopped in front of the house where my childhood had ended.
The house looked smaller than I remembered. The gate was rusty, the walls were cracked, and weeds had grown across the yard where I used to play as a little girl.
I walked to the front door and knocked.
A young woman opened it.
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
She looked exactly like Emma.
She had my eyes, my cheekbones, and the same small mark above her left eyebrow that Emma had carried since birth.
My heart began pounding so hard I could barely breathe.
“Who are you looking for?” she asked.
Before I could answer, my parents appeared behind her.
Patricia covered her mouth.
Richard turned deathly pale.
I looked at them and forced a cold smile.
“Do you regret abandoning me now?”
The young woman suddenly grabbed Patricia’s hand.
“Grandma,” she whispered, staring at me, “is this my real mother?”
Time seemed to stop.
“What did she just call you?” I asked.
Patricia broke down.
Her knees weakened, and she collapsed into a chair.
Richard tried to silence her, but she screamed at him.
“No! We have hidden this long enough!”
Then she confessed the truth.
The second baby had not died.
