Three Months Later
2022
“GO EMMA!”
The scream comes from her mother, Margot, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she jumps up and down on the bleachers only a few rows from Cage and me.
I’m on my feet, screaming along with Margot, though I’m still careful not to say her name. Cage is also on his feet, clapping his hands loudly and wearing a smile on his face.
He doesn’t know her, but he knows everything about her, and he’s learned to care for her from afar, too.
There’ve been many sleepless nights where I cried for the little sister I’ll never get to know, and he’s held me every time, talking me through those moments until I reminded myself that she’s happy.
“Are you going to introduce yourself to her?” Cage asks quietly.
My smile slips, and I shrug, trying to hide how the mere thought makes me want to vomit.
Cage took it upon himself to look deeper into Layla’s life, just to ensure she was as happy as it seems on the outside. And she is. But he discovered that there might be a part of her missing, too. He found her posting questions on public forums anonymously, asking for advice about the possibility of her parents lying to her about her early childhood. She wrote that she has vague memories of another mother-like figure in her life, but her parents will tell her nothing about it. She knows she’s adopted but feels like her parents are strangely secretive about where she came from and how they came about adopting her.
It broke my heart and made me question if I was genuinely doing the right thing by staying out of her life.
“I don’t want her to know what I do,” I say. Something I’ve said a million times before. “And I don’t want to lie to her, either. She’s been lied to enough in her life.”
“Is one lie worth never knowing her at all?” he asks. Something he’s asked a million times before.
And I still don’t have a good answer.
He stares at me intently, and I’m reminded that he could only know his sister for twelve years. The choice to know her longer was taken away from him.
Guilt eats at me, and a battle rages inside my head, only I still haven’t figured out who’s winning. The part of me that wants to know her, or the part of me that feels she’s better off without me.
Either way, Cage feels I’m taking that choice away from her.
“Her parents would hate me if I reappeared in her life, I think,” I continue.
“Possibly. But only because they’ll feel threatened. Maybe confused. But if you trust them with who you are, they might learn to trust you. You’re not there to take Layla away from them.”
“I would never,” I agree. “She belongs with her family, and I’d never do anything to change that.”
“You’re her family, too, baby. And once they know that you’re not trying to take her away, they might be happy to have you fill in those gaps for Layla. They’re so secretive about her past because they don’t know. They know nothing about who she really is or where she comes from, and maybe it’ll bring them some peace, too.”
It’s all hypothetical.
Theoretical.
There’s no way to know if that’s how they truly feel, or if that’s what they’d truly want. No way to know if it’s even what Layla would want.
Sure, she might think she does. But what happens if I tell her, and it sends her into a tailspin because now she must face the fact that her birth parents were sick, depraved people? Would it cause an identity crisis? Would she feel like her blood is tainted by evil?
They’re thoughts I’ve had to come to terms with myself. Would I end up like my parents eventually?
I don’t want Layla to suffer from those insidious thoughts. I don’t want her to ever know the pain of having her biological parents see her as nothing more than a cash cow. To know that she meant so fucking little to them.
Because she meant everything to me.
Everything.
Layla scores one more goal before the clock runs out, knocking the ball into the net with her head. Her team beelines for her, lifting her up in their arms and screaming for yet another win. They’re undefeated so far, and it looks like they’re quickly on their way to Nationals.
My heart bursts from pride, and I scream along with the rest of the team and their families, my hands stinging from how hard I clap them.
“Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma,” the team chants, lifting her up on their shoulders. Yet, her head is swiveling to look back at the other team, their shoulders slumped. Despondence polluting the air around them. There’s a slight frown on her face, almost as if she feels guilty for beating them.
It’s all I need to see to know that she will never be like our parents.
I just hope that if I do meet her, she’ll see that, too.
My heart is pounding in my throat, and I’m just wondering at what point my body decided it would function better there instead of my chest.
It’s clearly gone rogue, along with any coherent thought as Layla and her parents approach.
Cage and I are standing outside the field gate, where throngs of people spill out as everyone leaves for the night. The warm August air is suffocating, and I wish I had brought a mini fan to keep me from sweating through all my clothes.
I doubt being a sopping mess will make an excellent first impression.
Layla and her parents emerge from the doors, her blonde strands matted to her sweaty forehead and a bright smile on her face as her dad, Colin, shakes her shoulders with excitement. Her head tips down, and that grin slips ever so slightly.
It’s very little encouragement, considering I’m point two seconds from bailing, but it’s enough to keep my feet planted until Layla is only a few feet away.
The world tilts on its axis, slowing to a halt as our eyes clash. I’m not sure if we’re moving in slow motion or if she really has stopped walking. Regardless, there she stands, two feet away, and staring right at me.
“Emma?”
Layla’s head snaps to Margot, who is staring at her with concern, her gaze darting between her daughter and me.
“You okay?”
“Uh,” she stutters, but then refocuses on me before she can muster a better response.
“Emma, who is that?” Colin asks.
I bite my lip, my brain rolling over how to introduce myself. My real name? My fake name? Her sister? Does it even matter?
My mouth opens, then snaps shut, and I shift on my feet uncomfortably. This was a mistake. A huge mistake.
I have no place interfering in her life. Who cares if there’s a small part of her missing? It’s better than finding out your parents tried to sell you in the sex trade after they sold me.
That’s like—so much trauma.
I go to turn, but Cage grabs my biceps, preventing me from running away.
“Who are you?” Margot is directing her question toward me now.
“Uh.”
My response isn’t any more informative than Layla’s was, except I actually know the answer.
I clear my throat and try again, “Her sister.”
All three of their spines snap straight, but while wariness and suspicion clouds over her parents’ vision, Layla narrows her eyes in contemplation, as if she’s trying to recognize me from memories almost a decade old.
“Excuse me?” Margot snaps, stepping forward, her tone sharp and irate. “What makes you thin—”
“I gave her to you,” I say, my voice cracking. Fuck, it hurts so much to say it aloud, even if it was the best thing that I could’ve done for her. It just fucking sucks I couldn’t be that. Cage’s hand cups my bicep, gently squeezing to remind me he’s here. It’s enough to power on. “Ten years ago. I left her on your doorstep with a name tag and birthdate.”
She and Colin blink at me in astonishment, a range of emotions flashing through their stares. I doubt they told anyone that; it certainly wasn’t released to the public.
“You gave me away?” Layla asks, her voice soft and tinged with hurt. It’s the first time I’ve heard it up close and directed at me. It’s enough to move me to tears, though I manage to hold them back.
I chew on my lip, contemplating how to answer, only to settle on a shaky nod. I can’t trust my voice not to crack and for a tsunami of an explanation to burst free. I know I need to take it slow with her—if she decides she wants to know me—but I hate that she feels like I abandoned her because I didn’t want her.
“Why?” she asks.
“Maybe this isn’t the best place for this to happen,” Colin intervenes, glancing nervously between his wife and me. They’re both on edge. Uncomfortable. And for good reason.
Maybe I should’ve sent her a message on some social media app instead, but that felt so… impersonal. Dirty.
I don’t want Margot and Colin to feel like I’m sneaking behind their backs. Like some weird predator trying to gain Layla’s trust without their knowledge.
I want to do this the right way. Maybe this wasn’t the best way, but at least her parents won’t be kept in the dark.
“You’re right,” I rush out. “I guess I didn’t really know the best way to go about this—”
“You should’ve come to us first,” Margot states firmly. She’s aggravated, and her protective instincts are fully engaged. It’s understandable, but keeping my voice even takes effort.
“Probably. But I didn’t want to become a secret to her or a reason for you two to have to keep one if you tried to decide for her. I’m not here to try and take her away or cause any trouble. I chose you two for a reason, and I have no plans to undo that decision.”
“Then what do you want?” Layla asks, cocking her head.
“To know you,” I say, meeting her baby blue eyes. “That’s all. If that’s not what you want, I’ll respect that. But I just wanted it to be you who decides.”
Colin scoffs. “We get a say, too. She’s only fifteen—”
“And she’s going to grow up eventually,” I remind him, my own tone sharpening. “She won’t be fifteen forever. Just ask yourself if you’d be preventing her for her own sake or yours.”
He looks slightly offended by that, but it doesn’t make it any less accurate.
Swallowing back the bile threatening to spew from my throat, I take a few steps forward and hand Margot a piece of paper with my number written on it.
“Go home and talk about it as a family, yeah? Then call me when you all decide. I’ll respect your decision regardless.”
Hesitantly, she takes the slip from me. I spare Layla one last glance before turning and taking off.
“Hey!” Layla’s voice stops me, and I turn enough to give her my eyes. “What’s your name?”
I swallow, and for a brief moment, I consider giving her the name that I gave myself when I took her away from our awful home. But I want her to know the real me. The version of myself I’ve been fighting to find again since I became a ghost all those years ago.
“Molly,” I rasp. “My name is Molly.”
Then, I pivot and hope to God that this isn’t the last time I’ll ever hear her voice.
Cage entwines my hand with his, squeezing tightly.
“So, the little ghost finally materializes. Welcome to the rest of your life, baby.”
