“You’re her family, too, baby. And once they know that you’re not trying to take her away, they might be happy to have you fill in those gaps for Layla. They’re so secretive about her past because they don’t know. They know nothing about who she really is or where she comes from, and maybe it’ll bring them some peace, too.”
It's all hypothetical.
Theoretical.
There’s no way to know if that’s how they truly feel, or if that’s what they’d truly want. No way to know if it’s even what Layla would want.
Sure, she might think she does. But what happens if I tell her, and it sends her into a tailspin because now she must face the fact that her birth parents were sick, depraved people? Would it cause an identity crisis? Would she feel like her blood is tainted by evil?
They’re thoughts I’ve had to come to terms with myself. Would I end up like my parents eventually?
I don’t want Layla to suffer from those insidious thoughts. I don’t want her to ever know the pain of having her biological parents see her as nothing more than a cash cow. To know that she meant so fucking little to them.
Because she meant everything to me .
Everything.
Layla scores one more goal before the clock runs out, knocking the ball into the net with her head. Her team beelines for her, lifting her up in their arms and screaming for yet another win. They’re undefeated so far, and it looks like they’re quickly on their way to Nationals.
My heart bursts from pride, and I scream along with the rest of the team and their families, my hands stinging from how hard I clap them.
“Emma, Emma, Emma, Emma,” the team chants, lifting her up on their shoulders. Yet, her head is swiveling to look back at the other team, their shoulders slumped. Despondence polluting the air around them. There’s a slight frown on her face, almost as if she feels guilty for beating them.
It’s all I need to see to know that she will never be like our parents.
I just hope that if I do meet her, she’ll see that, too.
My heart is pounding in my throat, and I’m just wondering at what point my body decided it would function better there instead of my chest.
It’s clearly gone rogue, along with any coherent thought as Layla and her parents approach.
Cage and I are standing outside the field gate, where throngs of people spill out as everyone leaves for the night. The warm August air is suffocating, and I wish I had brought a mini fan to keep me from sweating through all my clothes.
I doubt being a sopping mess will make an excellent first impression .
Layla and her parents emerge from the doors, her blonde strands matted to her sweaty forehead and a bright smile on her face as her dad, Colin, shakes her shoulders with excitement. Her head tips down, and that grin slips ever so slightly.
It’s very little encouragement, considering I’m point two seconds from bailing, but it’s enough to keep my feet planted until Layla is only a few feet away.
The world tilts on its axis, slowing to a halt as our eyes clash. I’m not sure if we’re moving in slow motion or if she really has stopped walking. Regardless, there she stands, two feet away, and staring right at me.
“Emma?”
Layla’s head snaps to Margot, who is staring at her with concern, her gaze darting between her daughter and me.
“You okay?”
“Uh,” she stutters, but then refocuses on me before she can muster a better response.
“Emma, who is that?” Colin asks.
I bite my lip, my brain rolling over how to introduce myself. My real name? My fake name? Her sister? Does it even matter?
My mouth opens, then snaps shut, and I shift on my feet uncomfortably. This was a mistake. A huge mistake.
I have no place interfering in her life. Who cares if there’s a small part of her missing? It’s better than finding out your parents tried to sell you in the sex trade after they sold me.
That’s like—so much trauma.
I go to turn, but Cage grabs my biceps, preventing me from running away .
“Who are you?” Margot is directing her question toward me now.
“Uh.”
My response isn’t any more informative than Layla’s was, except I actually know the answer.
I clear my throat and try again, “Her sister.”
All three of their spines snap straight, but while wariness and suspicion clouds over her parents’ vision, Layla narrows her eyes in contemplation, as if she’s trying to recognize me from memories almost a decade old.
“Excuse me?” Margot snaps, stepping forward, her tone sharp and irate. “What makes you thin—”