I am Emily, Not Emma
Emily glowed with joy—she had passed all her exams! Not with straight A’s, but well enough to make her parents proud. As she opened the door to their cottage, she heard her mother’s familiar voice and… someone else’s, hollow, as if echoing from the past. Slipping quietly into her room, she tried not to intrude. But then she caught the words:
“I’m telling you for the last time, Margaret,” her mother said sharply.
A knock in the hallway—her father had come home for lunch. Emily peered out and locked eyes with a woman in a faded white shawl. Her face felt achingly familiar. Where had she seen her before? A shadow of a memory pricked at her, sharp and unwelcome. That woman with the sticky, lingering gaze. The one who had once called her “Emma.”
“Hello, Emma. Hello, love,” the uninvited guest murmured.
“Leave, Margaret,” her father said tightly.
“I’m going, I’m going… See you soon, little sister,” the woman tossed over her shoulder before vanishing.
Emily stood frozen.
“Dad, who was that?”
“Just an old friend of your mother’s.”
“But she called Mum her sister.”
“Girls say things like that sometimes… I suppose.”
Yet the anxious look in her mother’s eyes and the heavy silence in the house told another story. This was no mere friend. This was part of their secret.
Days later, Emily crossed paths with Margaret again.
“Well, hello, Emma,” the woman said, stepping too close.
“I’m not Emma. I’m Emily.”
“Do you remember me?”
“I… don’t know. You’ve visited Mum.”
“Your mum? I’m your mother, Emmy… your real one.”
Margaret clutched her hands, speaking feverishly, desperately. And Emily—without knowing why—followed.
“Come in, darling,” the woman led her to a dingy little room. “This is where you lived till you were two… remember?”
A wave of memories crashed over Emily: grimy floors, cigarette stubs, someone screaming, kicking the door, and tiny her, crawling, searching for scraps. Dirty fingers forcing into her mouth… and her biting down—hard. Fear. Tears. Cold. Emma… that’s what they called her then.
A rough voice yanked her back:
“Marg, out wandering again? Brought the money?”
A drunk man swayed in, his eyes bleary.
“Who’s this then? A present for me?” He reached for Emily.
She jerked her bag open, thrusting out notes.
“Here! Just don’t come back. Not to us, not to Mum or Dad. I remember everything. And you’re nothing to me.”
“Emma—”
“My name is Emily!”
She ran home, choking on tears. Shivering with fever, she collapsed into her mother’s arms.
“Mum, I went to her… I remembered… the lard… the dirty hands… I bit them—”
“Oh, my girl,” her mother rocked her like a child.
Then came the truth. Two sisters in the orphanage—Margaret and Helen. Adopted together. At first, Margaret was sweet, but then… she changed. Smoking, stealing, running off, then returning—pregnant. The father unknown. Her parents forgave. Helen, still a student, took the baby in. Emma became Emily. Margaret lost her rights, yet still demanded money for silence.
From then on, Emily was theirs—by love and by law.
Margaret would return sometimes, weeping, begging forgiveness.
“Emma, my love—”
“I’m Emily. I’m sorry, Aunt Marg.”
Her mother bore it all.
“She’s my blood. Maybe I’m her last tether to something decent…”
One day, Johnny arrived—the man with the filthy hands.
“Margaret’s in hospital. It’s bad.”
They went.
“Forgive me, love,” a pale, sober Margaret whispered. “Thank you for living. Thank you for being mine… even for a little while.”
“You’ll be all right. Just hold on. We’ll get you out.”
But she didn’t make it.
Later, Emily saw Johnny again. Sober now.
“I quit. Because of her… sorry, Emma—”
“I’m Emily.”
“Listen… I’m not your father, but I know where he is. Want to see?”
He took her to a handsome man’s grave. There, an elderly woman found her.
“His daughter?”
“I think so…”
“I’m your grandmother.”
Now Emily tends two graves. Two lives: one she escaped, and one she grew into.
She visits those who gave her life. She tells them her story. She promises to live well—and keeps that promise.
