The call came half past eleven at night. Emily had just begun to drift off to the steady rhythm of her husband’s breathing when the harsh ring of the phone made her start. Her heart skipped with anxiety—at this hour, good news rarely visits.
“James,” she gently shook her husband. “James, wake up! The phone’s ringing.”
He sat up abruptly, grabbing the receiver. Emily watched his face intently as it changed with every moment, growing ever paler.
“What… when?” he asked in a low voice. “Yes… yes… understood. I’ll be there now.”
James slowly put down the phone. His fingers trembled.
“What happened?” Emily whispered, already sensing the unfathomable had occurred.
“Tom and Lucy…” he swallowed. “An accident. Both of them. Right there.”
A heavy silence filled the room, pierced only by the ticking clock. Emily looked at her husband in disbelief.
Just the other day, they’d all been in the kitchen, drinking tea, with Lucy sharing a new cake recipe while Tom, James’s best friend since college, regaled them with fishing stories.
“What about Sophie?” Emily remembered suddenly. “Oh my God, what about Sophie?”
“She was home,” James said hurriedly, pulling on his trousers. “I have to go, Emily. For the identification… and everything else.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No!” he turned sharply. “Frances would be alone. No need to scare her in the middle of the night.”
Emily nodded. He was right—there was no need to involve their twelve-year-old daughter in this tragedy. At least, not yet.
Emily didn’t close her eyes all night. She roamed the house, frequently checking the clock. She peeked in on sleeping Frances—her little hand tucked under her cheek, her auburn hair spread across the pillow. So bright, so defenseless.
James returned at dawn—wan and red-eyed.
“It’s confirmed,” he said wearily, collapsing into a chair. “A head-on… with a lorry. They didn’t stand a chance.”
“What’s going to happen to Sophie now?” Emily asked quietly, placing a strong cup of coffee before him.
“I don’t know. She only has a very old grandmother in the countryside. Barely mobile.”
They fell silent. Emily gazed out the window, where a dreary, cold dawn was breaking. Sophie, James’s goddaughter, was the same age as their Frances. A fair-haired, quiet girl who always hung back a little.
“You know,” James said slowly, “I was thinking… maybe we could take her in?”
Emily turned sharply:
“Are you serious?”
“Why not? We’ve got the space. A spare room. I am her godfather, after all. Can’t just send her off to an orphanage!”
“James, but this… this is huge. We need to think it through. Talk to Frances.”
“What’s there to think about?” he pounded the table. “The girl lost her parents! My goddaughter! How can I look myself in the mirror if I abandon his child?”
Emily bit her lip. Of course, her husband was right. But it was all so fast, so unexpected.
“Mum, Dad, what’s happened?” Frances’s sleepy voice startled them both. “Why are you up so early?”
They exchanged glances. The moment of truth had come sooner than they had anticipated.
“Sweetheart,” Emily began, “have a seat. We have… very bad news.”
Frances listened in silence, her eyes growing wider and wider. And when her father mentioned that Sophie would live with them, she suddenly stood up:
“No!” she shouted. “I don’t want her here! She can go live with her grandmother!”
“Frances!” James admonished her. “How could you be so heartless! She’s going through a tragedy…”
“And what about me?” Frances’s eyes flashed. “These aren’t my problems! I don’t want to share my house, or you!”
She ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door. Emily looked helplessly at her husband:
“Maybe we should take it slower?”
“No,” he replied firmly. “It’s been decided. Sophie will stay with us. Frances will come around.”
A week later, Sophie moved in. Quiet, pale, with lifeless eyes. She barely spoke, just nodded in response to questions.
Emily did her best to care for her. She cooked Sophie’s favorite meals and bought new butterfly-patterned bedding.
Frances ignored Sophie demonstratively. She shut herself in her room, turning away whenever they crossed paths in the hallway.
“Stop behaving like this!” her father scolded her. “Have some empathy!”
“What have I done wrong?” Frances retorted. “I just don’t notice her. I have the right! This is my home!”
The tension in the house grew with each passing day. Emily was caught between the girls, trying to ease the situation. But the more she tried, the worse it seemed to get.
Then the earrings disappeared. Her beloved gold ones, with tiny diamonds—a present from James for their tenth wedding anniversary.
“It was her!” Frances accused when Emily discovered the loss. “I saw her going into your bedroom when you weren’t home!”
“Not true!” Sophie spoke for the first time. “I didn’t take anything! I’m not a thief!”
She burst into tears and ran to her room. James glared at his daughter:
“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? Trying to drive her away?”
“I’m telling the truth!” Frances stomped her foot. “She’s pretending! Acts all miserable, but really…”
“Enough!” Emily cut her off. “Let’s not argue. The earrings will turn up. Maybe I misplaced them and just forgot.”
But three days later, a ring disappeared from the jewelry box. The only keepsake from Emily’s mother.
“Well, this can’t just disappear, too, can it?” Frances asked mockingly. “Or are we going to pretend nothing’s happening?”
She stood in the middle of the living room, arms akimbo—like a little storm. In the doorway, stood pale Sophie, biting her lip and blinking rapidly, as if holding back tears.
Emily glanced from one girl to the other. And for the first time in days, she felt she was beginning to understand something.
Emily sat on the edge of the bathtub, turning a bottle of antiseptic in her hands. A simple solution occurred to her while tending to Sophie’s paper cut: the antiseptic—a stubborn stain like a lie, easily visible like the truth.
Waiting until everyone was asleep, she took out the jewelry box. Carefully, she marked each ring, each earring with a tiny dot.
“What am I doing?” she whispered into the darkness. “Oh, God, what’s this come to…”
The next morning, a pendant went missing. The breakfast table was silent. Sophie listlessly picked at her porridge, Frances turned defiantly toward the window. James sipped his coffee grimly.
“Girls,” Emily tried to keep her voice calm. “Show me your hands.”
They stared at her in surprise.
“Why?” Frances frowned.
“Just show me.”
Sophie was the first to extend her open hands—clean, without a single mark. But Frances hesitated.
“I don’t want to!” she tried to rise from the table.
“Sit down!” James’s voice boomed. “Show your mother your hands!”
Reluctantly, Frances held out her hands. Tiny green dots stained her fingertips.
An oppressive silence filled the kitchen. The ticking clock, the hum of water in pipes, and James’s heavy breathing were the only sounds.
“You…” he choked back his anger. “You accused Sophie, but you…”
Frances leapt up, knocking over her chair. Fear and something else—perhaps shame—swirled in her eyes.
“I hate you all!” she cried. “I hate everyone!”
Before anyone could stop her, she dashed to the hallway. The front door slammed.
“Frances!” Emily moved to follow, but her husband held her back.
“Let her cool off,” he said harshly. “Let her think about her actions.”
But as the hours passed, Frances didn’t return. Her phone went unanswered. By evening, Emily was beside herself.
“We need to call the police,” she said, her voice trembling. “It’s getting dark…”
And then Sophie, who had been silent all day, suddenly stirred:
“I think I might know where she is.”
“How?” Emily asked, surprised.
“I… I’ve seen her. Sometimes she likes to sit in the old gazebo in the park. By the pond.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before?” James pressed.
“You never asked,” Sophie shrugged. “I’ll go fetch her. Alone. Please.”
Emily exchanged a look with James. There was something new in Sophie’s voice—some unfamiliar note. Confidence? Determination?
“Go ahead,” Emily nodded.
An hour passed. Then another. As night fell, the doorbell rang.
The two girls stood on the doorstep—disheveled, flushed. Frances’s eyes were swollen from crying, but the anger was gone. And Sophie… for the first time since she’d been with them, she smiled.
“Mum,” Frances said quietly. “I’m sorry. I’ll… I’ll bring everything back.”
“I know, sweetheart,” Emily pulled her daughter close. “I know.”
“I just thought…” Frances choked back a sob. “I thought you’d love her more. She’s so sad. And I…”
“Silly,” Sophie suddenly chimed in. “You silly, Frances. Can you really steal love? It either exists or it doesn’t.”
Emily stared at her stepdaughter, astonished. Where did such wisdom in a twelve-year-old come from?
“We talked,” Sophie explained, noticing Emily’s gaze. “A long talk. About everything.”
“And do you know what?” Frances suddenly smiled through her tears. “She’s amazing. Our Sophie is. Can you believe she loves Harry Potter too? And she plays chess! Mum, can she stay in my room? Please?”
Emily felt a lump rise in her throat. She embraced both girls, holding them tightly. From somewhere in the house, James blew his nose loudly.
Later, tucking the girls in, she overheard their whispering:
“Hey, can I call you sis?” Frances’s voice wafted.
“Sure,” Sophie’s voice carried a smile. “But only on one condition.”
“What?”
“Teach me how to weave friendship bracelets? Yours are so pretty…”
Emily quietly closed the door. In the kitchen, James waited with two glasses.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, pouring the ruby liquid, “Tom and Lucy must be happy now. Up there, in heaven.”
“You think so?” Emily took a glass.
“I’m sure. Their girl is home. In a family. And now she has a sister.”
The stars twinkled outside. Dogs barked faintly in the distance. And in their room, two girls who had once been strangers whispered about their girlhood secrets, slowly becoming true sisters.
