“Mum, do you care?”
“Mum, did you ever want to be an artist?”
Emily sat at the kitchen table, gripping a fine brush. On the watercolour paper beneath her hand, a trembling branch of lilacs took shape—soft purple strokes quivering as if afraid to bleed.
“I did,” Natalie smiled, standing by the stove. “But I was nine. I decided becoming a doctor would be better—saving people and all.”
“Did you change your mind?”
Natalie reached for the kettle, avoiding her daughter’s gaze. These conversations always unsettled her. Too much hid behind them—old dreams, abandoned hopes, choices made with reason, not heart.
“Life just turned out differently.”
When Natalie adopted Emily, she was thirty-three. By then, she’d weathered infertility, a divorce that hollowed her, and the endless advice of well-meaning friends—”move on,” “try again,” “just adopt.” She hadn’t wanted to. Not from selfishness, but fear—would she have enough love? Then, at the foster home, she saw Emily. A thin girl with braids, hunched in a corner, sketching flowers with a pencil. When Emily lifted her eyes, they held a grown-up sorrow that pierced Natalie’s chest. A year later, Emily called her Mum.
Now Emily was ten. She attended the same primary school where Natalie taught literature. Colleagues and parents respected her—”that teacher who took in the foster girl.” But Natalie didn’t want praise. She only wanted Emily to have a life untouched by her past.
“Miss Thompson, if you want Emily enrolled here, you’ll need to complete the forms. Including the birth certificate.” The receptionist at the private academy peered over her glasses, stern but not unkind.
“Of course,” Natalie nodded, steadying her voice. “We’ll have everything ready.”
She’d prepared in advance. Emily’s new surname—hers—was neatly inked into the documents, no hint of adoption. Not that it was a secret, but Natalie refused to let Emily’s past invite pity or questions. She knew how cruel children could be—how a single word could cut deeper than intended.
That evening, they baked an apple pie. Emily peeled apples with an artist’s focus—thin ribbons of skin curling into the bowl, sugar sprinkled like sacred ritual.
“Mum, does the new school have an art club?”
“Yes. A good one. And drama. And a swimming pool.”
“What if they don’t take me?”
Natalie looked at her. Emily kept her eyes down, fingers frozen over the mixing bowl.
“They will, love. We’ll make sure of it.”
The phone rang on Saturday morning. Natalie stepped into the garden to answer—indoors, the sound felt too loud. The voice on the line was a woman’s, muffled, as if speaking through years.
“Is this Natalie? I—I’m Emily’s mother.”
The world narrowed. Natalie gripped the porch railing. She noticed everything—a speck on her coat, a crack in the pavement, her own breath turning thick.
“What do you want?”
“I’m not asking for anything. I just… wanted to know how she is. Could I—see her? Just once?”
“She doesn’t remember you,” Natalie said, harsher than she meant. “She has a new life. Don’t ruin it.”
“I understand. I’m sorry.”
The line died.
Natalie walked inside, only then noticing Emily at the stairs. The girl was silent, but her eyes were wary—like a kitten catching an unfamiliar sound.
“Who was that?”
“Wrong number,” Natalie lied, the words sticking in her throat. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
A few days later, the school called. Emily had hit a classmate—utterly unlike her. Natalie sat in the staff room while Emily waited outside.
“She struck a boy,” the teacher adjusted her glasses. “Says he insulted her.”
“How?” Natalie clutched her handbag.
“She’ll tell you. But Miss Thompson… children sometimes repeat what they hear at home.”
In the corridor, Emily sat stiffly, staring at the floor. When Natalie approached, she whispered:
“He said I don’t have a real family. That I’m not ‘his sort.’ And… that you’re not really my mum.”
“Who told him that?”
“I don’t know. But he knew.”
That night, Natalie lay awake, the dark pressing down. For the first time, her lie felt like a hairline crack in glass—invisible until pressure splits it wide. She thought of Emily’s first “Mum,” their wobbly bike rides, the nights Emily cried herself to sleep before trusting this house. She’d wanted to shield her. But truth, it seemed, was stronger.
The next day, the woman called again. Her name was Sarah. She asked to meet. Natalie hesitated, but something—exhaustion, maybe, or instinct—made her agree.
“Come. But no scenes. And don’t approach Emily.”
They met in the park under ancient linden trees. Sarah was younger than Natalie expected—early thirties, with tired eyes and a frayed scarf clutched in restless fingers.
“I know I’ve no right… but back then, I was alone. Terrified. No one told me there were other choices. I spent three years in rehab. I’ve a job now, a flat. But—she’s in my dreams. I just thought… maybe once, from a distance…”
“And then what? ‘Hello, I gave you up, but here’s a hug’?” The words spilled out before Natalie could stop them.
“No. Just… to see her. That’s all.”
Natalie studied her—not an enemy, just another woman carrying ghosts. Then, unexpectedly:
“Tomorrow. Four o’clock. By the school gates. You don’t speak. You don’t come near. You just… look.”
Sarah nodded like a chastened child. Natalie felt an unexpected pang of pity.
On the way home, Emily stopped abruptly.
“Mum… did I have another mother? A real one?”
Natalie’s pulse raced, but she sat on the bench by their door.
“Love… I didn’t mean to lie. I thought you were too young.”
“I’m not angry. But kids say things. I needed to know what’s true.”
“Shall I tell you everything?”
“Yes.”
They stayed there as Natalie spoke—no blame, no dramatics. She explained how Emily came to her, how Sarah couldn’t care for her then but might regret it now. Emily toyed with her coat zipper, then asked:
“Is she… nice?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s trying.”
“Can I see her?”
Natalie squeezed her daughter’s warm hand.
“If that’s what you want.”
The meeting lasted two minutes. Sarah loitered near the school like someone waiting for a bus. Emily walked beside Natalie, quiet but alert. Then she let go and approached the bench.
Natalie froze. She wanted to shout, to intervene, but her feet refused to move. Emily stood before Sarah and said:
“I’m Emily. I paint lilacs. I like apple pie. And my mum—she’s right there. You can… look. But not for long.”
Then she walked back.
Sarah trembled on the bench. Natalie sat beside her, speechless. Finally:
“She’s wiser than both of us.”
Sarah wiped her face.
“Everything for Emily. Only for her.”
Then she left without looking back.
At home, Emily painted new lilacs, her brushstrokes steadier, the purple bold and even.
“Mum… you’re not cross?”
“About what?”
“That I talked to her.”
“No. I’m proud of you.”
Emily nodded, then—without glancing up—said:
“Shall we bake a pie?”
Natalie smiled, warmth flooding her chest.
“Absolutely, love. Absolutely.”
