I’m Emily, Not Emma
Emily was glowing with happiness—she’d passed all her exams! Not straight A’s, perhaps, but good enough to make Mum and Dad proud. Pushing open the front door, she heard her mother’s familiar voice—and someone else’s, husky and odd, like an echo from the past. Slipping quietly into her room to avoid interrupting, she froze when she caught the words:
“I’m telling you for the last time, Emma…” Mum snapped.
A clatter in the hallway—Dad was home for lunch. Emily peeked out and locked eyes with a woman in a frayed white headscarf. Her face felt achingly familiar. Where had she seen her before? A shadow of memory prickled, sharp and uneasy. That woman with the sticky, intrusive stare. The one who’d once called her “Emma.”
“Hello, Emma. Hello, love,” the stranger said.
“Off you go, Emma,” Dad said tightly.
“Right, right… See you soon, sis,” the woman tossed over her shoulder as she left.
Emily stood stunned.
“Dad, who was that?”
“Your mum’s friend.”
“But she called her ‘sis.’”
“Girls say that sometimes… I suppose.”
But Mum’s anxious glance and the heavy silence in the house said otherwise. This wasn’t just a friend. This was part of their secret.
A few days later, Emily ran into Emma again.
“Well, hello, Emma,” the woman said, stepping too close.
“I’m not Emma. I’m Emily.”
“Do you remember me?”
“I don’t… You’ve visited Mum.”
“Your mum? I’m your mum, Emma… Your real one…”
Emma grabbed her hands, words tumbling out—pleading, desperate. And Emily, without quite knowing why, followed her.
“Come in, love,” the woman led her to a dingy little flat. “This is where you lived till you were two… Remember?”
A wave of memories crashed over Emily: stained floors, cigarette butts, someone shouting, kicking the door, tiny her scavenging for scraps. Dirty fingers forcing into her mouth—so she bit down, hard. Fear. Tears. Cold. Emma… back then, they’d called her Emma.
A rough voice yanked her back:
“Emma, been gallivanting again? Brought any cash?”
A drunk bloke staggered in, eyes bleary.
“Who’s this, then? A present for me?” He reached for Emily.
She jerked her bag open, pulling out cash:
“Here! Just don’t come back. Not to us, not to Mum, not to Dad. I remember everything. And you’re nothing to me.”
“Emma…”
“My name is Emily!”
She ran home, choking on tears. By the time she got there, she was shaking, feverish. Mum found her sobbing.
“Mum, I went to her… I remembered… the grease… the dirty hands… I bit them…”
“Oh, my girl…” Mum held her tight, rocking her like a child.
Then came the story. Two sisters in care—Emma and Olivia. Adopted together. Emma started sweet, but then… changed. Smoking, thieving, running off, coming back pregnant. The father? No one knew. Mum and Dad forgave her. Olivia, still at uni, stepped in—took the baby as her own. Emma became Emily. Emma lost her rights but kept demanding money to stay away.
From then on, Emily was theirs—by love and by law.
Emma sometimes returned. Crying. Begging forgiveness.
“Emma, love…”
“I’m Emily. Sorry, Auntie Emma.”
Mum endured it.
“She’s my sister. Maybe I’m her last thread to a decent life…”
One day, Gary turned up—the one with the grubby fingers.
“Emma’s in hospital. It’s bad.”
They went.
“Forgive me, love,” a pale, sober Emma whispered. “Thank you for living. Thank you… for being mine for a little while.”
“It’ll be alright. Hang on. We’ll get you out.”
But she didn’t make it.
Later, Emily saw Gary again. Sober.
“I quit. Because of her… Sorry, Emma…”
“I’m Emily.”
“Listen… I’m not your dad, but I know where he is. Want to see?”
He took her to a handsome man’s grave. An elderly woman found Emily there.
“You’re his daughter?”
“I think so…”
“I’m your grandma…”
Now, Emily has two graves. And two lives: one she escaped, one she grew up in.
She visits the ones who gave her life. Tells them about herself. Promises to live well—and keeps that promise.
