Silence filled the room—thick, suffocating silence.
“What exactly are you saying, Emma?” Dad asked.
“I told her I’d stay with her for a week.”
My mother made a small, pained sound.
Dad straightened, his jaw tight.
“A week,” he repeated.
I nodded. “Please.”
“Emma, please, my girl,” Mom pleaded. “Just listen to us. Don’t go.”
“I’ve been listening to you my whole life,” I said. “Please, let me figure this out.”
Dad’s voice was low but steady. “Go, Emma. Just… remember—she left you once. Think about that before you walk out that door.”
“I’ll call you,” I whispered.
Mom choked back a sob.
“Yeah, you do that,” Dad said.
So, I went with her.
Sarah’s “house” wasn’t a house. It was a mansion. A literal mansion.
Marble floors. Crystal chandeliers that looked like they belonged in a palace. A sweeping staircase that curved gracefully toward the second floor like something out of a movie.
“This could be yours,” she told me, her voice thick with emotion. “We can have the life we were meant to have.”
A pang of guilt twisted inside me.
Had my parents stolen this from me? Had they stolen her from me?
I stayed for the week, just as I’d promised. Just to see.
But the truth didn’t take long to find me.
