My life had shrunk to a simple rhythm: scrub, study, repeat.
One morning, as I was polishing the staircase rail, Elaine appeared behind me.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I replied quietly.
“Well, now you do. And if I see even one streak on the desk, you’ll do it again,” she said, turning on her heels before I could answer.
I sighed and walked toward the study.
I’d rarely been inside. Linda once warned me to only enter if someone asked me to.
The door creaked as I pushed it open.
Everything looked untouched: neat, cold, and strangely personal at the same time.
I started with the desk, wiping the surface carefully, then dusted the windowsills and the furniture.
By the time I reached the bookshelves, my arms ached. I began removing the books one by one, brushing the dust from the spines.
It was a photograph.
I bent down, picked it up, and froze.
I knew this picture.
It was my mother, smiling, holding me as a baby in her arms.
I had the exact same photo back home, tucked inside my diary.
I stared at it, my hands trembling. How could this be here?
The door opened behind me. I turned quickly, shoving the photo behind my back.
“What do you have there?” she asked.
I hesitated. “I wasn’t looking through anything, ma’am. It fell out from between the books while I was dusting.”
“Show me.”
I handed her the photograph.
She looked at it for a second, but it was enough. Her face changed, the calm mask slipping for a heartbeat before she caught it again.
“Where did you get this?” I asked softly. “That’s my mother.
That’s me.”
“That’s not your concern,” she said firmly. “Finish up and then go clean my bedroom.”
I wanted to say more, to ask her again, but her tone left no room for questions. “Yes, ma’am,” I whispered.
She nodded and walked away, closing the door behind her.
I stood alone in that silent room, the air thick with confusion. My mother’s photo in this house? It made no sense.
That night, I tried to study, but the image wouldn’t leave my mind.
Around midnight, I heard voices through the thin wall next to my bed. I turned off my lamp and listened.
Margaret’s voice was sharp and anxious. “Why didn’t anyone check her background?
Do you realize what this could cost us?”
Linda’s quiet voice followed. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I didn’t know.
What should we do?”
“We’ll think of something,” Margaret said. “Her mother already caused enough trouble once. I won’t let the daughter do the same.”
I moved away from the wall and sat on the edge of my bed, cold spreading through my chest.
So my mother knew this family. But how?
The next morning, I was cleaning the bathroom upstairs when the door suddenly opened.
“Oh—sorry, Kate! I thought you were done here,” Thomas said, stepping back.
I froze. Kate again.
He quickly rubbed the back of his neck.
“I mean—Clara. Sorry, I keep mixing things up.”
I turned to face him. “You’ve called me that before,” I said quietly.
“Why?”
He looked away. “It’s nothing. Just a mistake.”
“No,” I said, straightening up.
“You knew my mother, didn’t you?”
His eyes flickered toward mine, then down to the floor. “I didn’t.”
“Please don’t lie to me. I found a photograph in your study yesterday.
My mom was holding me in her arms. I have that same photo. How did it end up here?”
Thomas froze.
“I didn’t believe it was really you, not until now.”
“I don’t want anything from you,” I said. “I just need to know the truth. My mom died when I was twelve.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to hold on to the little I remember of her.”
“Your mother worked here once,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”
“She worked here? I didn’t know that.”
“You weren’t supposed to,” he said.
“We made sure of it.”Continue reading…
