I stood there stunned, the box trembling in my hands. My prom dress suddenly felt too tight, like it was choking me.
Behind me, I heard my mom’s sewing machine still humming faintly in the back room where she was working on a neighbor’s hemline. For one terrifying moment, I thought about calling her—but something about this woman’s eyes rooted me in place.
“What… what do you mean?” I stammered.
The woman glanced over her shoulder, as though making sure no one else was around, then leaned in closer. Her perfume made me dizzy.
“For sixteen years, they’ve hidden the truth from you,” she whispered. “They aren’t who you think they are. And neither are you.”
I shook my head. “That’s not true. My parents love me—”
She cut me off with a bitter laugh. “Love doesn’t erase lies. Ask yourself—why did they adopt you in the first place? Why did they never tell you who I was? What they’re afraid you’ll find out?”
My grip on the box tightened. “What’s in here?”
Her expression darkened. She stepped back, her glossy hair catching the porch light. “The first piece of the truth. Open it when you’re alone.”
And just like that, she turned and walked down the driveway, her heels clicking against the pavement. Within seconds, a sleek black car pulled up, and she disappeared inside.
I stood there on the porch, heart racing, when my mom’s voice floated from the kitchen:
“Sweetie, was that Lucas?”
I shoved the box behind my back. “Uh—no! Wrong house!” I called, forcing my voice to sound cheerful.
But inside, my hands were shaking so hard I thought I’d drop it.
Lucas arrived moments later, smiling wide, completely unaware of the storm brewing in my chest. He told me I looked beautiful, and I smiled back, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the mysterious box burning in my hands upstairs in my room.
Later that night, when the music at prom thumped and the gym sparkled with lights, I slipped into the bathroom and locked the stall door. My pulse hammered in my ears.
I opened the white box.
Inside was a stack of photographs.
The top one made my stomach flip. It was me—but not from childhood. Not as a baby. It was me now, in my school uniform, standing outside my house last week.
Someone had been watching me.
And at the bottom of the stack was a note written in looping script:
“You don’t know who you really are. And if you stay with them… you never will.”