I have a secret

The summer was at the corner, and as was customary, Anna my stepsister had caught the latest cold. At this rate, it had become almost tradition—every year without fail, she would fall sick as if the changing season and her illness were bound together by fate.

“Achoo!” Anna sneezed at the top of her lungs.

I grinned to myself; I already knew what she would say next.“I can tell someone is thinking about me. Dear sister, did you miss me?” she teased, her voice a little hoarse.

Before the opportunity beckoned to raise a comeback, our father’s voice came boisterous from downstairs.

“Dinner is served!”

My dad was a chef at a well-known restaurant. He was somehow lucky enough to have worked under the father’s culinary genius Gordon Ramsay. He was always on top of everything—every single meal tasted like it was part of the five-star menu.

“Coming, Papa!” I called out, hoping he could hear me from my secluded room, as a good daughter would.

But before leaving, I reached for my diary, flipping to a fresh page. My pen hovered in thought for a moment, then, finally, I penned down the haunting question resting on my mind for years.

Who is my mother?

It almost never left me, really. I don’t think Papa would tell me much about her. All I knew was that her name was Emily and that she had left us when I was five. But why did my memories of her seem blurry and ghosted in my mind, something like those deliberately erased images of a camera roll?

A soft knock on my door drew me back to the present moment.

“Sweetheart, the food’s getting cold. Come downstairs,” Dad said tenderly.

I quickly shoved the diary into its customary hiding spot, far away from prying eyes. Taking a deep breath, I shoved away my bothersome questions and proceeded down the stairs for dinner