Mother?

The woman on the doorstep isn't my daughter. My daughter's dead. We identified the body. We had a funeral. The loss tore our lives apart. The brutality of it. It still stings, every day. Even now, twenty-five years later.

I peer at her, as if her face is a mask. Perhaps our little Althea is hiding behind those red-painted lips and perfectly arched brows.

I study the shape of her nose, the sweep of her jaw. Her eyes. Her eyes could be our Thea. Dark. Chocolate eyes.

Both hands folded over the handle of the leather satchel she's carrying. I could believe she had money, because her clothes look meticulously tailored, but it's more than that. She has poise. Every line of her is expectant, waiting to be invited in. That kind of... entitlement?... suggests not just having money, but growing up with it. Soaking in it. Taking it for granted. Or perhaps not even money at all, but breeding, whatever that means. If she weren't born with a silver spoon in her mouth, a nanny placed one there early.

This starched woman with the neat helmet of soft, dark hair... She couldn't be my Thea. I can't hope. It hurts.

Yet... Her expectant attitude is implacable. Sending her away is unthinkable.

Then, she's sitting on my couch, sipping tea. I dug out the good china, because I couldn't picture her sipping from one of our well-used, mismatched mugs.

She sips politely, in between telling me she'd been adopted by a rich family.

"Why do you think you're my-" my voice is as fragile as the cup rattling in my saucer. I can't bring myself to say "daughter". The word turns into a stone and sits in my throat.

She sets the satchel on her lap, spine ramrod straight, and chin tilted down. She has photos of herself as a child.

I gasp, choke back a sob. That's my Thea! Smiling back at me from these old pictures!

...I didn't take these. That's not our house. Not our dog.

Tears stand in her eyes.

"I've been looking for you a long time."

Grief was the rock bottom of me. Weaved into my every cell. If this is true, then what am I now?

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Word count: 366

(NB. This excludes the title, subtitle, and author's note.)

Submitted on Tuesday 22nd October at 21:29

Quick Author's Note

A Year of Stories: I'm writing (and submitting, here) a story every day this year. This continues my 296 daily micro-fiction story streak since 1st January. I'm nearly at 300!!

ONLY SEVENTY DAYS TO GO!

Please consider lending your support to the other creators on this madcap "a story every day" adventure. They're putting out excellent content every day!

Rachel Deeming

Gerard DiLeo

Thank you

Especially if you are one of the wonderful people who has been staunchly reading these daily scribbles since the start of the year. I see you, and I am extremely grateful for your ongoing support.

Thank you to those who leave feedback/comments. Bear with me while I catch up on reads (I will have much more time to do this at the end of the coming week. In the meantime, I do appreciate your eyes!)

If you enjoyed this one, the very best compliment you can give me is to share it, or read another!

This is my latest dollar challenge. Please have a look.

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Thank you again!