Then one evening, I overheard her talking on the phone.
“No,” she whispered. “The girls still don’t know. Please… after all these years, don’t contact them.”
When she noticed me standing in the doorway, she immediately hung up.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number.”
I knew she was lying.
A few days later, the three of us attended a community event together. Someone took the photo of us smiling and hugging.
Ten minutes later, Emily’s phone buzzed.
She looked at the screen.
Mom saw the name before I did.
Her face went completely pale.
She grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.
“If Emily finds out who just contacted her, everything could change.”
I looked over Mom’s shoulder.
The message was from a woman named Carol Miller.
I had heard that name once before.
Years ago, when I was about twelve, I had found an old photograph hidden in Mom’s closet. Mom had taken it away immediately and said:
“Never ask me about Carol again.”
That night, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I searched Mom’s closet and found an old yellow envelope marked:
FOR THE GIRLS.
Inside were legal papers and a faded photograph.
Mom was standing beside another young woman holding a baby.
The baby was Emily.
I froze.
Mom appeared behind me.
“You weren’t supposed to find that.”
Emily had followed her into the room.
“What is this?” she asked.
Mom sat down.
Then she finally told us.
Emily was not her biological daughter.
