But I believed him. I believed all of it. Because what else could I believe?
For five years I woke up from nightmares of two babies crying somewhere in the dark.
The sound of laughter down the hallway pulled me back to the present, and I stepped out of the bathroom.
The taller girl spotted me instantly, as if she’d been waiting.
“Mom, will you take us home with you?”
I knelt down and gently took their hands. “Sweetheart, I think you’re mistaken. I’m not your mother.”
Her face immediately crumpled. “That’s not true. You are our mother. We know you are.”
Her sister gripped my arm even tighter, tears filling her eyes. “You’re lying, Mommy. Why are you pretending you don’t know us?”
They refused to accept my explanation.For the rest of the week they stuck to me like shadows. They chose the seat beside me at lunch, stayed by my side during activities, and talked to me constantly with the openness children show when they feel safe.
And every single time they addressed me, they said “Mom.”
On the third afternoon, while we were stacking blocks together, the smaller one spoke quietly.
“Why didn’t you come to get us all these years? We missed you.”
“What’s your name, sweetheart?”
