Chapter 1: A Stranger at My Own Door
The first person to forget me was my mother.
At first, I thought she was joking.
It was the way she said it, calm and confused, like I was a wrong number calling in the middle of her busy morning.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mum, it’s me.”
There was a small pause.
Not long enough to scare me.
Just long enough to make my heart notice.
“Who is this?”
I laughed softly, because what else was I supposed to do?
“Mum, stop it. It’s Elara.”
Silence.
Then the sound of her breathing changed.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “I think you have the wrong number.”
My smile faded.
“Mum, it’s me. Your daughter.”
This time, the pause was longer.
Cold.
Empty.
Then she said the sentence that made my whole world tilt.
“I don’t have a daughter.”
The call ended before I could speak again.
For a few seconds, I only stared at my phone.
Maybe she was angry.
Maybe I had done something and forgotten.
Maybe she was with someone and couldn’t talk properly.
There had to be a reason.
There was always a reason.
I called again.
No answer.
I called a third time.
Still nothing.
My hands started shaking, but I forced myself to stay calm. I opened my messages and searched her name.
Mum.
Nothing.
I frowned.
That was impossible.
I searched again.
No messages.
No missed calls.
No photos.
No voice notes.
It was like every tiny proof of her had been wiped from my phone.
I stood in the middle of the footpath, staring at the screen while people walked around me like I was just another stranger blocking their way.
Maybe my phone had glitched.
Maybe I had logged into the wrong account.
Maybe I was still half asleep.
I kept telling myself that until I reached my street.
The house looked the same.
Same white fence.
Same small rose bush near the front step.
Same cracked window on the left side that Dad always promised to fix but never did.
Home.
My chest loosened a little.
See?
I was being dramatic.
People didn’t just forget their own children.
Lives didn’t just disappear.
I opened the gate and walked toward the front door.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
A little girl stood there.
She was maybe six or seven years old, with dark hair tied in two messy ponytails and a biscuit in one hand.
She looked up at me.
I looked down at her.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then she turned her head and shouted into the house, “Mum! There’s a lady at the door!”
My heart stopped.
Mum?
Footsteps came from inside.
Familiar footsteps.
I knew that sound. I had grown up hearing it in the kitchen, in the hallway, outside my bedroom door when I pretended to be asleep.
Then my mother appeared.
My mother.
Same face.
Same eyes.
Same soft cardigan she wore when the weather turned cold.
For one beautiful second, relief rushed through me so quickly I nearly cried.
“Mum,” I whispered.
She looked at me.
No smile.
No recognition.
No warmth.
Just polite confusion.
The little girl held onto her hand.
My mother gently pulled the child closer, like she was protecting her from me.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
The world went silent.
I couldn’t hear the cars behind me.
I couldn’t feel the cold wind on my face.
I could only see my mother standing in front of me, looking at me like I was a stranger.
“Mum,” I said again, but this time my voice broke.
Her eyebrows pulled together.
“I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
I stepped back.
The little girl stared at me with wide, curious eyes.
Then she asked the question that shattered the last piece of me.
“Why is she calling you Mum?”
My mother did not answer.
She only looked at me more carefully, like there was something about my face that almost bothered her.
Almost.
But not enough.
“I think you should leave,” she said gently.
Gently.
That was the worst part.
She wasn’t angry.
She wasn’t pretending.
She truly did not know me.
I opened my mouth, but no words came out.
What could I say?
I’m your daughter.
I lived here.
My bedroom is upstairs.
You used to braid my hair before school.
You held me when I cried.
You promised me I would never be alone.
But I was alone.
Standing outside my own home.
Begging my own mother to remember me.
The door began to close.
Panic shot through me.
“Wait!”
My mother froze.
I reached into my bag with shaking hands and pulled out my wallet.
“My ID,” I said quickly. “Look. My name is Elara Hayes. This is my address. This is my home.”
I handed it to her.
She looked at the card.
Then her face changed.
Not into recognition.
Into fear.
She stepped back so quickly the little girl bumped into her leg.
“What is this?” she whispered.
I looked down.
My blood turned cold.
The photo on the ID was mine.
But the name was not.
It said:
Mara Hayes
Before I could speak, the little girl smiled.
“That’s my name,” she said.
And somewhere behind me, a boy’s voice whispered,
“Elara, don’t move.”
Thank you for reading Chapter 1! 🖤
This is my very first story, and I'm so excited to share it with you. If you enjoyed it, please vote, leave a comment, and tell me your theories. I read every single one.
💜Vian💜
