Based on the cliffhanger provided in the image, here is the completion of the story.
“Hi,” she said, “YOU HAVE TO… help me. I have nowhere else to go.”
The sentence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. My hand gripped the doorframe, knuckles white. The woman standing on my porch looked like a ghost of my future self. She had the same nose, the same chin, and, as I’d noted with a jolt of horror, the exact same eyes.
But where my eyes usually held the reflection of my husband’s smile or my children’s laughter, hers held a frantic, hollow desperation.
“You have to help me,” she repeated, thrusting the grocery bag forward slightly. The cheap plastic crinkled. “I brought cookies. Chocolate chip. You used to like those.”
I stared at the bag. I was twenty-nine years old. I hadn’t liked store-bought chocolate chip cookies since I was eight—the year before she decided she couldn’t “handle me.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice surprisingly steady, though my heart was hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. “I think you have the wrong house.”
I started to close the door, but she jammed her foot in the jamb. It was a scuffed, dirty sneaker.
“Don’t do this, Sarah,” she snapped. The soft, pleading tone evaporated instantly, replaced by the sharp edge I remembered from the nightmares of my childhood. “I know it’s you. I know you’re angry. But family helps family.”
My husband, David, appeared behind me then. He didn’t say a word, just placed a warm, solid hand on my shoulder. His presence was an anchor. He looked at the woman, then at the foot in the door, his face hardening.
“Remove your foot,” David said calmly.
She faltered, pulling back slightly but not leaving. “I’m her mother. I have rights. I need… I need to talk to her.”
“You lost those rights twenty years ago,” I said. The anger I thought had died in my third foster home flared up, hot and bright. “You said it was temporary. I waited. Do you know what it feels like to check the mailbox every single day for two years?”
She looked down, feigning shame, but her eyes were darting around, assessing my home, my nice car in the driveway, the stability I had built from scratch. “I was young. I was overwhelmed. I made mistakes. But I’m sick now, Sarah. My kidneys are failing. I need a donor. The doctors said a biological child is the best match.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
The cookies. The visit. The “You have to help me.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t maternal instinct kicking in two decades late. It was a harvest. She hadn’t come back for her daughter; she had come back for spare parts.
I looked at the woman who gave me life, and then I looked back into the hallway where my four-year-old son was peeking around the corner, clutching his teddy bear.
“You returned my birthday card,” I whispered.
She blinked, confused by the change of subject. “What?”
“When I was eleven. I sent you a card. It came back Return to Sender.”
“I moved a lot,” she dismissed it with a wave of her hand. “Look, we can catch up on all that later. Right now, I need you to get tested. If we match—”
“No,” I said.
Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me? I’m dying.”
“I mourned you when I was thirteen,” I told her, my voice gaining strength. “I cried for you until I had no tears left. I sat in a room with a social worker who couldn’t look me in the eye because she knew you weren’t coming back. You died to me then. And I don’t resurrect ghosts.”
“You selfish ungrateful brat!” she shrieked, the mask falling completely. “After everything I—”
David stepped forward, his size filling the doorway. “Leave. Now. Or the police will be the next ones you talk to.”
She glared at me, her face twisting into something ugly and unrecognizable. She threw the bag of cookies at the door. They smashed against the wood, crumbs scattering across the welcome mat. Then she turned and stomped down the driveway.
I didn’t watch her go. I closed the door. I locked the deadbolt.
I turned around and sank to the floor, shaking. David sat beside me immediately, pulling me into his arms. I cried, but not for long. These weren’t the desperate tears of a nine-year-old girl waiting for a mother who would never come. They were tears of relief.
My son waddled over, concerned. “Mommy? You okay?”
I wiped my face and pulled him into my lap, burying my nose in his hair. He smelled like baby shampoo and safety.
“I’m wonderful, baby,” I said, kissing his forehead. “I’m right here. And I’m never going anywhere.”
I realized then that she was wrong. I didn’t have to do anything. The blood in my veins came from her, but the love in my heart? That was all mine to give, and I chose to give it to the people who stayed.
