Short Story

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.
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