Blood type was not proof.
Charles repeated that sentence three times.
I knew it.
AB negative was rare, but rarity did not equal certainty. Lily could have inherited it through another biological father. Genetics did not arrange themselves neatly for people desperate for answers.
Still, the fact followed me all the way back to the children’s home.
Red curls.
Blue eyes.
Freckles.
Mark’s donor history.
A clinic record tied to Lily.
AB negative.
And somewhere in the archive, a missing conception file from Emma’s birth year marked as a duplicate.
Miss Jameson met us near the entrance.
“Lily’s fine,” she said before I could ask. “The bloodwork was part of a routine physical.”
“Why was Charles told?”
“Because the physician flagged the blood type as uncommon, and I knew he had been reviewing historical medical data connected to the clinic.”
She looked at me carefully.
“I hesitated to involve you.”
“But you did.”
“Yes.”
“Because you think she could be Mark’s daughter.”
Miss Jameson did not answer directly.
“I think the question deserves proper testing.”
My pulse quickened.
“Can we do that?”
“Not informally.”
“What does that mean?”
“Lily is a minor under guardianship. Genetic testing tied to paternity or adoption needs authorization.”
“From whom?”
“Her caseworker, legal guardian, possibly the court depending on scope.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
I hated that phrase.
Everyone around this story seemed to possess a version of it.
I looked toward the hallway.
“Can I meet her now?”
Miss Jameson studied my face.
“Are you prepared to meet Lily as Lily?”
The question was gentle.
It hurt anyway.
“Yes.”
“Not as Emma.”
“Yes.”
“Not as proof.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
I held her gaze.
“I’ve spent ten years knowing exactly who Emma was. Nobody can replace her.”
Miss Jameson nodded.
“And if Lily is biologically connected to your husband?”
“Then she is still Lily.”
That seemed to satisfy her.
She led me into a small family room with shelves of games, two sofas, a low table, and a window overlooking the yard.
“You’ll have twenty minutes today.”
“Will you stay?”
“At first.”
My hands felt useless.
I folded them together.
“What does she know about me?”
“That you’re an adult who has expressed interest in getting to know her.”
“Does she know about Mark?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Miss Jameson opened the door.
“Give me a moment.”
She left.
I heard soft conversation in the hallway.
Then footsteps.
For ten years, I had imagined impossible things.
Emma walking through our front door.
Emma appearing older in a crowd.
Emma’s voice calling from another room.
Grief creates ghosts because the mind hates finality.
I knew that.
I had survived it.
Still, when Lily entered the room, every lesson I had learned about reality deserted me.
She was smaller than I expected.
Photographs flatten children into faces.
In person, she was narrow-shouldered and cautious, wearing jeans and a yellow sweater with one sleeve pushed higher than the other.
Her red curls were tied loosely behind her head.
Several had escaped.
My chest tightened.
Emma hated having her hair tied back.
She always pulled loose the front strands within minutes.
Lily stopped beside Miss Jameson.
Her blue eyes moved over me.
Not shy exactly.
Evaluating.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
Her voice was different.
Of course it was.
Lower than Emma’s had been.
Softer.
That difference steadied me.
“I’m Claire.”
“I know.”
A tiny smile appeared.
Right side first.
My breath caught.
Miss Jameson noticed.
Her gaze flicked toward me.
I kept my face calm.
“Would you like to sit?”
Lily shrugged.
We sat on opposite ends of the sofa.
Miss Jameson took a chair nearby.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Lily looked at my shoes.
“You stepped in chalk.”
I glanced down.
A blue streak marked the edge of my sole.
“I did.”
“That was probably Noah.”
“Is Noah an artist?”
“He thinks he is.”
Miss Jameson smiled.
Lily did not.
“He draws sharks that look like potatoes.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Lily looked pleased.
“He says they’re hammerheads.”
“Maybe they’re very round hammerheads.”
“That’s what Miss Jameson says because she’s nice.”
Miss Jameson lifted an eyebrow.
“I’m sitting right here.”
“I know.”
There it was.
Not Emma.
Lily.
Dry, observant, careful.
Something inside me loosened.
“Do you draw?” I asked.
“Sometimes.”
“What?”
“Animals.”
“I read that.”
She frowned.
“Read what?”
“Your profile.”
Her face closed slightly.
I regretted mentioning it.
Miss Jameson stepped in.
“Claire saw the short introduction we use for families.”
Lily looked at me again.
“What else does it say?”
“That you like books.”
“I do.”
“And don’t like loud places.”
“That makes me sound boring.”
“No.”
“What does it make me sound like?”
I considered.
“Like someone who knows when a place is too loud.”
She studied me.
That answer seemed acceptable.
“What books?”
“Animal ones.”
“Fiction or facts?”
“Both.”
“Favorite animal?”
“Fox.”
My heart tightened unexpectedly.
Emma had loved foxes.
Not casually.
Obsessively.
She had owned a stuffed red fox named Jasper that went everywhere with her for nearly two years.
I forced myself not to react.
“Why foxes?”
Lily shrugged.
“They look like they know something.”
The exactness of the answer unsettled me.
Not because Emma had said it.
She had not.
Because it sounded like the kind of answer Emma might have invented.
I reminded myself that resemblance invites projection.
If Lily had said elephants, I might have remembered Emma’s elephant book.
If she said dogs, I could have found a dog memory.
Grief was skilled at confirmation.
“Do you have a favorite?” Lily asked.
“Animal?”
She nodded.
“Horses.”
“Why?”
“I used to ride when I was younger.”
“Did you fall off?”
“Many times.”
“Did it hurt?”
“Usually.”
“Then why did you keep doing it?”
I smiled.
“I liked horses more than I disliked falling.”
She considered this.
“That makes sense.”
Miss Jameson checked the clock.
“I’m going to step outside for a few minutes.”
Lily looked at her.
“You said you’d stay.”
“I’ll be right outside.”
The child’s shoulders tightened.
Immediately I said, “She can stay.”
Miss Jameson looked at me.
“It’s okay.”
Lily relaxed slightly.
“Thank you.”
Those two words changed something.
Not dramatically.
But enough.
This child had learned to monitor adults leaving rooms.
I wondered how many times people had promised to return.
We talked about school.
Lily liked science.
Hated handwriting.
Was good at spelling but pretended not to care.
She avoided questions about previous homes without becoming visibly upset.
I did not push.
Eventually her eyes fell on my phone.
“Do you have kids?”
The question landed gently.
I could have lied.
Instead I said, “I had a daughter.”
“Had?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Miss Jameson shifted.
I looked at Lily.
“She died.”
The child’s expression did not change much.
Children who have known loss rarely react the way sheltered adults expect.
“How old?”
“Six.”
Lily looked at me.
“Like me.”
“Yes.”
“What was her name?”
“Emma.”
She rolled the name quietly.
“Emma.”
My throat tightened.
“She had red hair too?”
I froze.
Miss Jameson did too.
I had not shown Lily a photograph.
I had not described Emma.
I said carefully, “Yes.”
Lily looked at one of her curls.
“So that’s why you’re here.”
The room became very still.
“Why do you think that?”
“Because Miss Jameson looked at me weird yesterday.”
The director inhaled.
“I did not look at you weird.”
“Yes, you did.”
Lily turned back to me.
“And Rebecca asked if I remembered a man with red hair.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What man?”
Miss Jameson stood.
“Lily—”
The girl frowned.
“What?”
“Rebecca shouldn’t have asked you that without me present.”
“She did.”
I looked at Miss Jameson.
“What is she talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“Rebecca works for the agency.”
“Yes.”
“Why would she ask Lily about a red-haired man?”
Miss Jameson’s face had hardened.
“I intend to find out.”
Lily looked between us.
“I saw one.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
“What?”
“A man with red hair.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
“Recently?”
She shook her head.
“When I was little.”
Miss Jameson crouched beside her.
“Lily, where did you see him?”
The child’s eyes narrowed with the effort of remembering.
“At the other house.”
“Which house?”
“The blue one.”
Her previous foster placement, perhaps.
Miss Jameson asked, “Did he live there?”
“No.”
“Did he visit?”
“Once.”
My hands had begun to tremble.
“Do you remember what he looked like?”
Lily looked at me.
“Like me.”
The words made my skin prickle.
Miss Jameson spoke gently.
“How old were you?”
“Maybe four.”
“What did he say?”
Lily’s face changed.
Not fear.
Confusion.
“He cried.”
I swallowed.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say to you?”
Lily looked down at her hands.
“He said I looked like someone.”
My heart slammed once against my ribs.
“Who?”
She thought.
Then shook her head.
“I don’t remember.”
Miss Jameson stood.
“Okay. That’s enough.”
“No,” I said.
She gave me a warning look.
Lily looked between us.
“I’m not upset.”
“I know,” Miss Jameson said. “But these are adult questions.”
“I hate when people say that.”
“So did I when I was six.”
“You weren’t six with me.”
Miss Jameson smiled faintly.
“No. I wasn’t.”
I looked at Lily.
“Do you remember his name?”
She frowned.
“Maybe.”
“Lily.”
Miss Jameson’s tone was firmer.
I stopped.
The child watched me carefully.
Then, without being asked, she said, “I think it started with M.”
My hands went cold.
Mark.
It could be coincidence.
Michael. Matthew. Mason. Martin.
A thousand names.
But everything around this child had begun as coincidence.
I forced my voice steady.
“Did he give you anything?”
Lily nodded.
“A fox.”
The room disappeared.
Not literally.
But for a second, everything beyond her face became meaningless.
“What kind of fox?”
“A stuffed one.”
“What color?”
“Orange.”
I could barely breathe.
“Do you still have it?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“The blue house people threw it away.”
“Why?”
“It was old.”
My heart pounded.
Emma’s stuffed fox.
Jasper.
Orange fur.
White chest.
One black ear slightly crooked because she used to chew it.
I knew how irrational the thought was.
Thousands of stuffed foxes existed.
Still, a question came out before I could stop it.
“Did it have a name?”
Lily looked surprised.
“Yes.”
Miss Jameson stared at me.
I gripped my knees beneath the table.
“What?”
She thought.
“I called him Jasper.”
Every part of me went numb.
No.
Impossible.
I heard Miss Jameson say my name.
I did not answer.
Lily watched me.
“Are you okay?”
I looked at her.
“How did you choose that name?”
“I didn’t.”
“Who did?”
“The man.”
My vision blurred.
I blinked hard.
“He told you the fox was named Jasper?”
“Yes.”
“What else did he say?”
Lily looked uncomfortable now.
Miss Jameson stepped between us.
“That is enough.”
I stood.
“Please.”
“No.”
“Margaret.”
Her expression made clear this was not negotiable.
“She is six. Whatever you are discovering, you will not discover it by interrogating her.”
The word cut.
She was right.
I looked at Lily.
“I’m sorry.”
The girl shrugged, but some of the openness had left her face.
I hated myself for causing it.
“I didn’t mean to make this strange.”
“It was already strange.”
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
“Yes.”
Miss Jameson sat beside Lily.
“Why don’t you go find Noah and make sure his sharks haven’t become vegetables again?”
Lily stood.
At the door, she looked back at me.
“Are you coming again?”
The question caught me unprepared.
“If you want me to.”
She considered.
“Okay.”
Then she left.
The door closed.
I turned toward Miss Jameson.
“Jasper.”
“I heard.”
“That was Emma’s fox.”
“Are you certain?”
“I bought it before she was born.”
“Many toys share names.”
“Mark named it.”
Miss Jameson’s expression sharpened.
“What?”
“Emma was three when she asked what the fox should be called. Mark said Jasper.”
She slowly sat.
“And Lily says a red-haired man gave her a fox called Jasper.”
“Yes.”
“Four years ago.”
“If her memory is accurate.”
“She’s usually very good with specific details.”
I stared at the door.
“Rebecca knew.”
“Something.”
“She asked about a red-haired man.”
“I will speak to her.”
“Now.”
Miss Jameson nodded.
She called from the office phone.
Rebecca did not answer.
She tried again.
Voicemail.
My pulse climbed.
“Where is she?”
“Agency office, presumably.”
“Call them.”
Miss Jameson did.
Her expression changed as she listened.
Then she said, “When?”
A pause.
“Did she say why?”
Another pause.
“I see.”
She hung up.
“What?”
“Rebecca resigned this morning.”
My stomach dropped.
“After calling you about Lily’s bloodwork?”
“She called before the office received her resignation.”
“Where did she go?”
“No one knows.”
I thought of the red-haired man.
A fox named Jasper.
Four years ago.
The timing.
Mark told me his last contact with Evelyn was four years ago.
I pulled out my phone.
Miss Jameson said, “Who are you calling?”
“Mark.”
He answered immediately.
“Claire?”
“Did you ever visit Lily?”
Silence.
My entire body went cold.
“Mark.”
“Where are you?”
“Answer the question.”
His breathing changed.
“Claire—”
“Did you meet a four-year-old girl at a blue foster house and give her Emma’s stuffed fox?”
Miss Jameson stared.
On the phone, Mark said nothing.
I closed my eyes.
“You told me you had never heard of Lily.”
“I didn’t know her name.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
His voice broke.
“Evelyn took me there.”
Everything inside me went still.
“When?”
“Four years ago.”
“Why?”
“She said there was a child I needed to see.”
“And you went.”
“Yes.”
“You gave her Jasper.”
“Yes.”
I could barely force the next words out.
“Why did Evelyn want you to see Lily?”
Mark’s answer came after a long, terrible pause.
“Because she told me Lily wasn’t the first child from the clinic who looked like Emma.”
I gripped the phone.
“What did that mean?”
He whispered, “She said there had been another girl before Lily.”
My chest tightened.
“How old?”
“Emma’s age.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“And where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mark.”
“I swear.”
“What did Evelyn say happened to her?”
He breathed once, shakily.
Then said the sentence that turned the missing duplicate record into something far worse than an accounting error.
“She said the girl disappeared when she was six.”
Click here to continue reading: PART 9: The Missing Girl Was Emma’s Age, and One Old Photograph Forced Claire to Question Which Child Evelyn Had Really Been Watching
Ten Years After One Ordinary Drive Destroyed Our Family, I Finally Asked Mark Whether We Were Allowed to Want a Future
Part 8 of 15
