**Diary Entry**
A child without roots is nothing. A ghost who accidentally took shape. Thats how Ive always felt.
“Did you always feel like a ghost?” Michael asked, stirring his coffee in my sleek London kitchen.
I looked at himmy only friend, the one who knew the truth. The man who helped me find *her*. The woman who carried me, then tossed me aside like a discarded draft.
My first cry never touched her heart. My adoptive parents only had a note pinned to a cheap blanket: *”Forgive me.”* One wordall I ever got from the woman who called herself my mother.
Margaret and Geoffrey Wilson, an elderly childless couple, found me on an October morning. They opened their door to a bundlealive, wailing. They had enough decency not to send me to an orphanage, but not enough love to call me their own.
“You live under our roof, Emily, but rememberwere strangers to you, and you to us. Were just doing our duty,” Margaret repeated every year on the day they found me.
Their flat became my cage. A fold-out bed in the hallway corner. Meals eaten alone, leftovers gone cold. Clothes from charity shops, always two sizes too big. *”Youll grow into them,”* shed say. By the time they fit, theyd fallen apart.
At school, I was the outcast. *”Foundling,” “stray,” “nobodys child,”* the whispers followed me.
I didnt cry. Instead, I stockpiledanger, resolve, defiance. Every taunt, every cold glance fuelled me.
By thirteen, I was workinghanding out flyers, walking dogs. I hid the cash under a loose floorboard. Margaret found it one day while mopping. *”Stealing?”* she sneered, clutching crumpled notes. *”Like mother, like daughter.”*
*”I earned it,”* I said.
She tossed the money onto the table. *”Then youll pay your way. Rent. Food. Youre old enough.”*
At fifteen, I worked every spare hour. At seventeen, I left for university in another cityjust a backpack and a shoebox holding the only proof of my past: a newborn photo, taken before an unknown woman took me from the hospital.
*”She never loved you, Emily,”* Margaret said as I left. *”Neither did we. But at least we were honest.”*
I shared a dorm with three girls, lived on instant noodles, studied until my vision blurredtop marks, scholarships only. Nights were spent stacking shelves at a 24-hour shop. Classmates laughed at my worn clothes. I didnt hear them. I only heard one voice: *”Ill find her. Ill show her what she threw away.”*
Nothing cuts deeper than being unwanted. It lodges under your skin like shards youll never dig out.
I fiddled with the gold chain around my neckmy one indulgence, bought after my first big project. Michael knew the whole story. Hed found her. Helped me plan.
*”You know this wont bring you peace?”* he asked.
*”I dont want peace,”* I said. *”I want an ending.”*
Life has a way of surprising you. In my third year, fate winkeda marketing professor assigned a project for an organic skincare brand. I spent three sleepless nights pouring every ounce of rage into it. When I finished, the room fell silent.
A week later, my professor burst in: *”Emily, investors want to meet you.”*
They offered equity, not payment. I signed with shaking handswhat did I have to lose?
A year later, the startup took off. My share became a sum Id never dreamed of. Enough for a flat. Enough for the next venture.
By twenty-three, I owned a penthouse in central London. Just my backpack and that shoebox. No clutter from the pastonly a starting point and a path forward.
*”I thought success would make me happy,”* I told Michael the day we met at a conference. *”It just made me lonelier.”*
*”Youve got a ghost on your shoulder,”* he said, pinpointing what I couldnt name.
So I told him everything. He wasnt just a friendhe was a private investigator. Two years of searching. Dead ends. False leads. Then he found her: the woman who left only a word and my DNA.
Margaret Hayes. Forty-seven. Divorced. Living in a run-down council flat. No children. *”No children.”* That line in the report burned worst of all.
*”Shes looking for work,”* Michael said. *”Cleaning jobs. Are you sure about this?”*
*”Completely.”*
The plan was simple: Michael posted a job ad under my name. He interviewed her in my office while I watched.
*”Do you have experience, Margaret?”* he asked.
*”Yes,”* she said, picking at cracked nails. *”Hotels, offices. Im thorough.”*
*”The employer is particular. Punctuality and perfection matter.”*
*”I need this job,”* she whispered.
Her voice was frayed, her posture broken. I hated it.
She started the next week. I watched her scrub my floors, dust my trinkets, hand-wash silk blouses Id bought just to impress. I tipped her wellnot out of kindness, but to keep her coming back.
Two months passed. Eight cleanings. She became invisiblejust the scent of lemon polish and perfect order.
We barely spoke. I was always *”on a call”* or *”busy.”* But I noticed her lingering on my photos: me at the Eiffel Tower, me at conferences, me with clients.
Did she see our shared cheekbones? Our eyes? Did her body remember carrying me?
*”Youre torturing yourself,”* Michael said after she left one evening.
Maybe. But I couldnt stop.
Then, one day, I caught her tracing my graduation photo in its silver frame. Her chapped fingers hovered over the glass like she was memorising it.
*”See something familiar?”* I stepped into the room.
She startled, nearly dropping it. *”Miss Wilson! I was just dusting”*
*”Youre crying,”* I said flatly.
*”Itsjust the polish. Irritates my eyes.”*
I sat at my desk, pulse hammering. *”Sit down.”*
She perched on the edge of the chaira small woman in a world of power, wringing her hands.
*”You remind me of someone,”* she murmured.
I snapped. *”Twenty-five years ago, you left a baby on a doorstep. A girl. With a note: Forgive me. That girl was named Emily. Look at me, Margaret.”*
Her face crumpled. *”Its not possible.”*
I slid the newborn photo across the desk. *”I dreamed of asking you: why? What was so wrong with me?”*
She collapsed to her knees. *”I was young. The father left when I got pregnant. My parents threw me out. I had nothingno money, no home. I thought youd be better off with someone who could care for you.”*
I laugheda bitter, hollow sound. *”Better off? They fed me. Clothed me. Never loved me.”*
Tears streaked her face. *”I thought of you every day. Every single day.”*
*”But you never looked.”*
*”I did!”* Her voice cracked. *”A year later. They said no baby had been found. I thought”*
*”Thought I was in care. And stopped trying.”*
She sobbed into her hands. *”Forgive me. Or just let me stay. As your cleaner. Please.”*
I studied herbroken, pitiful. And suddenly, the weight inside me vanished.
*”No,”* I said softly. *”I dont want revenge. But theres nothing to forgive. You made your choice. Now Im making mine. Youre free. So am I.”*
I walked to the window. London hummed belowalive, relentless. *”Michael will settle your pay. Dont come back.”*
When she was gone, I picked up the newborn photo. *”You made it,”* I whispered. *”All on your own.”*
Days later, I called her. Asked to meet. To start over. I let the pain go. Tried to understand. Tried to forgive.
