Chapter 2

Mark kept talking, his voice low and soothing, trying to explain.

"Sarah, you had a tough time after Ethan was born. Postpartum, the doctors said. Sometimes... sometimes moms imagine things."

I shook my head. "No. Emily is real. I remember her laugh. Her favorite blue dress."

My heart ached with a fierce, protective love for a daughter they said didn't exist.

He sighed, a sound of deep exhaustion. "We've been happy, haven't we? With Ethan?"

I looked at the boy, who was now quietly eating an apple, watching us with worried eyes.

He looked like Mark.

"I need to find her things," I said, standing up suddenly.

"Sarah, don't."

I ignored him. I went to the hall closet. Emily's little rain boots should be there. Her small backpack.

Nothing. Just Mark's shoes, my shoes, and a pair of tiny boy's sneakers.

I tore through the closet.

"Her room," I muttered. "Her bedroom."

I ran upstairs. The room at the end of the hall. It was painted blue. Emily loved yellow.

There was a small bed with a superhero comforter. Toy trucks on the shelf.

"This isn't her room!" I cried out. "Where are her dolls? Her storybooks?"

Mark had followed me. He stood in the doorway, his face grim.

"This has always been Ethan's room, Sarah."

I spun around, desperate. "The birth certificate! I have it. I have Emily's birth certificate!"

I ran to our bedroom, to the small fireproof box where we kept important documents.

My hands fumbled with the lock.

Inside, there were passports, our marriage certificate, and one birth certificate.

I pulled it out.

Name: Ethan Michael Thompson. Date of birth: October 12th. Parents: Sarah and Mark Thompson.

My breath hitched. No.

"It's not here," I whispered. "Someone took it."

Mark put his hands on my shoulders. "Sarah, please. Stop torturing yourself."

"She's missing," I insisted, pulling away. "Someone took my daughter. I have to call the police."

"Don't do this," Mark pleaded. "You'll only upset yourself more. And Ethan."

I grabbed my phone. I dialed 911.

"My daughter is missing," I told the operator. "Her name is Emily. She's five years old."

An hour later, a police officer was in our living room. Detective Miller.

He listened patiently while I described Emily, her blonde hair, her blue eyes, the day she disappeared from preschool.

Mark sat beside me, his head in his hands.

Miller asked Mark questions. Mark explained, his voice heavy, that I hadn't been well. That I sometimes believed I had a daughter named Emily.

Miller looked at the family photos Mark showed him. He looked at Ethan's birth certificate.

"Ma'am," Miller said to me, his voice kind but firm. "All the evidence here points to your son, Ethan. There are no records of a daughter named Emily Thompson registered in this town, or in the state for the past ten years."

He suggested I talk to my doctor. Dr. Evans.

The name echoed in my mind. Mark had mentioned him.

"He thinks I'm crazy," I said, looking at Mark.

Mark wouldn't meet my eyes.

Miller left. The house felt cold, empty.

The next day, Mark took me to Dr. Evans.

He diagnosed me with a delusional disorder. Prescribed medication.

The world started to blur.