Chapter 7: The Little Girl Who Called Me Sister
My mother was already reaching for her coat before I finished calling the police.
"She's going to take Sophie," she said.
I grabbed her good arm.
"Mom, wait. We don't know what's happening.""
"Vivian has been lying to us for six years. What else do you need to know?""
"She's six years old. We can't just storm into someone's house.""
My mother looked at me with tears running down her face.
"She's my daughter, Lena.""
I had never heard her voice sound like that.
Not when she discovered my father had lied about her death.
Not when she learned Daniel had forged her signature.
Not even when she found out another family had raised her baby.
This was different.
She had finally heard her youngest child's voice.
And she was terrified she would lose it again.
I called the number back.
It went straight to voicemail.
My mother paced beside the living room window while I searched for the address connected to the adoption paperwork.
The Millers lived in a quiet neighborhood outside Austin. According to the document, Catherine Miller had become Sophie's legal mother six years earlier.
But there was something strange.
The adoption authorization had been signed on November 3.
The accident happened in October.
My mother had still been unconscious.
I showed her the date.
"Mom, this adoption was finalized before you were even discharged from the hospital.""
She stared at the document.
"That's impossible.""
"Could they have obtained temporary guardianship first?""
"Perhaps. But no legitimate adoption could have happened without proper consent.""
I looked closer.
There was a court stamp in the lower corner.
Travis County Family Court.
And a judge's signature.
My mother shook her head.
"I never attended a hearing.""
"Then someone lied under oath.""
My phone rang.
It was a detective who had taken our statements after the graduation incident.
I explained the phone call, the little girl's identity, and Vivian's presence at the Miller home.
He asked us to stay where we were.
"We have officers contacting the local authorities in Austin," he said.
"Do not confront anyone yourselves.""
My mother took the phone from me.
"Detective, I'm her biological mother. I haven't held my daughter since she was born.""
There was a pause.
"I understand, ma'am.""
"No, you don't. You don't understand what it's like to have someone tell you your child died when she didn't.""
The detective softened his voice.
"We're going to find out what's happening.""
After the call ended, I looked at my mother.
"Let's wait for the police.""
She nodded.
But she didn't sit down.
Instead, she walked to the piano.
Her fingers moved over the keys.
A familiar melody emerged.
It was the lullaby she used to sing to me when I was little.
I remembered sitting on her lap, listening to the same tune while she rocked me beside the fireplace.
"Do you think Sophie will remember you?"" I asked.
My mother stopped playing.
"No.""
She looked at me.
"But I hope she'll let me introduce myself.""
Three hours later, the detective called again.
His name was Detective Harris.
He told us officers had visited the Miller residence.
Catherine Miller was home.
Richard Miller was not.
And Sophie was missing.
My mother nearly dropped the phone.
"What do you mean missing?""
"Mrs. Miller says her daughter went to stay with a relative.""
"Which relative?""
"She refused to provide a name.""
I grabbed the phone.
"Was Vivian there?""
"Not when officers arrived. However, a neighbor confirmed seeing a woman matching her description entering the house earlier.""
"Where did Sophie go?""
"We're trying to establish that.""
My mother began crying.
"Please. You have to find her.""
Detective Harris promised to update us.
Then he asked something unexpected.
"Ms. Alvarez, did you ever have contact with a woman named Margaret Collins during your hospitalization?""
My mother frowned.
"Who?""
"She worked as a nurse at the facility where you were treated.""
My mother went still.
"I remember her.""
"She was recently interviewed. She says she has information about the infant transfer.""
"What information?""
"She wants to speak with you in person.""
My mother looked at me.
"Where is she?""
"She's at a police station in Austin.""
An hour later, we were on the highway.
The sky had turned dark, and rain streaked across the windshield.
My mother sat beside me, clutching the photograph of Sophie.
Every few minutes, she traced the little girl's face with her thumb.
"Do you think she looks like me?"" she asked.
I glanced at the photograph.
"Her eyes do.""
My mother smiled sadly.
"I always imagined her with dark hair.""
"She has your hair.""
"Does she like music?""
"I don't know, Mom.""
"Does she sleep with a stuffed animal?""
I swallowed.
"I don't know.""
My mother looked out the window.
"I missed everything.""
I reached over and held her hand.
"You're here now.""
She nodded.
But neither of us knew whether that would be enough.
At the Austin police station, Margaret Collins was waiting in a small interview room.
She was in her late fifties, with silver hair and a tired expression. When my mother entered, she stood immediately.
"Elena.""
My mother stopped.
"You remember me?""
Margaret nodded.
"I remember everything.""
My mother approached her.
"Tell me about my baby.""
Margaret took a breath.
"The night you were admitted, your daughter was delivered by emergency C-section. She was premature, but she was breathing.""
My mother closed her eyes.
"Did I hold her?""
Margaret nodded.
"For a few minutes.""
A tear rolled down my mother's cheek.
"What happened?""
"Daniel came to the hospital the following morning. He said you had authorized him to make medical decisions for the baby.""
"I never did.""
"I know that now.""
Margaret opened a folder.
"There was another man with him. He introduced himself as your husband.""
My mother looked confused.
"Marco?""
Margaret nodded.
"They brought documents. They said you had been mentally unstable before the accident and that you had previously discussed giving up the baby.""
My mother shook her head.
"That's a lie.""
"I know.""
Margaret pulled out a photocopy.
"I questioned the documents. But my supervisor ordered me to stay out of it.""
"Who was your supervisor?""
"Dr. Samuel Reed.""
My mother looked down.
The same doctor named in the medication records.
Margaret continued.
"Two days later, I discovered that the baby had been transferred to another facility. The records showed an emergency placement.""
"Where?""
"An agency called Bright Futures Family Services.""
My stomach tightened.
"Was that a legitimate agency?""
Margaret looked at me.
"It existed. But the person who approved the transfer wasn't authorized to do so.""
She turned another page.
"And there's something else.""
She placed a photograph on the table.
It showed a newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket.
My mother began shaking.
"That's her.""
Margaret nodded.
"I took this photograph because I was afraid something was wrong. I wanted proof that the baby had been alive when she left the hospital.""
My mother touched the picture.
Then she looked up.
"Why didn't you come forward earlier?""
Margaret lowered her eyes.
"Because I was threatened.""
"By whom?""
Margaret took a long breath.
"By Vivian Brooks.""
My mother froze.
Margaret continued.
"She visited me at my home two weeks after the transfer. She told me that if I ever spoke about the baby, my own daughter would lose custody of her children.""
I stared at her.
"She threatened your family?""
Margaret nodded.
"She also paid me to keep quiet.""
My mother stood.
"How much?""
"Twenty thousand dollars.""
My mother looked disgusted.
"And you accepted?""
Margaret began crying.
"I was terrified. I made the worst decision of my life.""
She pushed a small flash drive across the table.
"But I kept copies of everything.""
Detective Harris entered the room and collected it.
"We'll examine these immediately.""
Margaret looked at my mother.
"Elena, there's one thing you should know about Sophie.""
My mother sat back down.
"What?""
"She wasn't adopted by the Millers because they couldn't have children.""
"Then why?""
Margaret hesitated.
"Because they were paid.""
The room went silent.
"Paid by whom?"" I asked.
Margaret looked directly at me.
"Your father.""
My mother gripped the edge of the table.
"How much?""
"Three hundred thousand dollars.""
I stared at her.
My father had paid someone to raise his own daughter?
Detective Harris looked through the papers.
Then he stopped.
He pulled out a page and read the last entry twice.
"There's another name here.""
"What name?"" I asked.
He turned the document toward us.
The transfer authorization had been witnessed by someone who had signed their full name.
*Lena Alvarez.*
My blood ran cold.
I shook my head.
"I was sixteen. I never signed anything.""
My mother looked at the document.
Then she whispered:
"They used your identity, too.""
And suddenly, the investigation was no longer just about a stolen child.
May you like
Someone had been building a false history around my entire family.
And they had used my name to do it.
Related Stories
