At Christmas, my mom showed old photo albums. My fiancé froze and whispered: “Don’t you see it?”
There was a name I didn’t recognize. A woman. The message had hearts in it.
My mom’s face was blank. Then she deleted it. Blocked the sender.
Closed the laptop. When I asked who it was, she said, «Spam.»
Spam doesn’t send you messages that make your hands shake.
But I let it go. Because I always let it go. I was diagnosed with PTSD at 17.
Nightmares. Panic attacks. This dull, ever-present fear like something was always about to happen.
Like I was waiting for a door to slam that never did. My therapist asked me about the war. I told her I didn’t remember it.
She said that was probably why. Except now I know I wasn’t scared of the war. I was scared of her.
I didn’t remember that right away. It didn’t hit like lightning. It came in pieces.
That night, as I sat at the kitchen table, staring at the photos Lucas had taken, one memory blinked to life like a flashlight in a dark room. A woman. Not my mother.
Not the one who raised me. Someone else. A softer face.
Dark eyes. She smelled like citrus. I was holding her hand.
And then there was another woman. Not the one who raised me. Someone else.
Softer voice. Gentle hands. I was holding her hand.
Then the woman I grew up calling Mom walked in. She was younger. Smiling like she’d just arrived.
The first woman leaned down and said in Serbian, «This is your babysitter.»
That was the first time I met her. Then another flash.
Me pulling on a coat, crying, saying, «I want Mama.» And a hand on my shoulder. Tight.
«Don’t say that again. If you talk about her, you disappear.»
I remember those words now.
I didn’t before, but they were there. Buried under years of being told to smile for the camera. And then the screaming.
I was in a bed. New. Strange.
My legs kicking. My chest burning. I was calling for her.
The first woman. The one who smelled like citrus. And another voice.
Cold. «Enough.»
I don’t know how long the panic lasted.
Maybe minutes. Maybe centuries. Lucas found me on the kitchen floor, gasping.
My palms flat against the tiles like I was trying to hold on to something. He tried to touch me. I flinched.
He sat beside me instead, not saying anything. And somewhere in the middle of that, still on the floor, breath caught in my throat, vision swimming, I reached for my phone and dialed 911. The operator picked up on the third ring.
«911, what’s your emergency?»
My chest was caving in. My mouth opened, but no sound came out at first. Lucas was still kneeling beside me, one hand on my back, steadying my breath like he could anchor it.
I finally forced the words out. «I’ve been kidnapped.»
A pause.
Sharper now. «Ma’am, are you safe right now?»
«I… I think so. I’m home.»
«Is the person who took you with you now?»
«No, no. It was… it was a long time ago, I think. I just… I just remembered it.»
Another pause, then a shift in tone. Gentle, still controlled. «Okay, take a breath for me.»
«You’re not in danger right now?»
«No, but it’s real. I remember now. They weren’t my parents.»
Lucas reached over and took the phone. «Hi, this is her fiancé. She’s having a panic attack.»
«Just came on about 15 minutes ago. She’s been uncovering some things. Childhood photos that look clearly edited.»
«No birth records. Weird inconsistencies. And she just had a very vivid memory.»
«She believes she was abducted when she was around five. It would have happened 25 years ago, outside the U.S.»
The operator stayed calm.
«I understand. What’s your location?»
Lucas gave our address.
«I’m going to log this as a welfare check and forward it to the department’s investigative unit,» she said.
«You’ll get a call from someone to follow up. If either of you feels unsafe in the meantime, don’t wait. Call us back immediately.»
Lucas thanked her and hung up. I was still shaking, but the words had been said out loud to someone real. And there was no one doing that.
I didn’t sleep. I showered, changed clothes, folded laundry I didn’t remember putting in. I think I emptied the dishwasher at one point.
Lucas hovered, made tea, watched me like I was glassware in an earthquake. «You should rest,» he said at one point. I nodded, didn’t move.
I kept expecting someone to knock on the door or burst through it, or for the floor to just fall out from under me. Instead, the apartment stayed quiet, humming softly like it didn’t care what was happening to me. The next morning, I got an email.
Case file opened. Pending contact from an assigned officer. Someone would be in touch.
That was it. I showed Lucas. He read it twice, then just nodded.
«It’s real now,» he said.
Real. Like it hadn’t been real when I was curled on the kitchen floor trying to remember if I’d ever actually had a mother.
The knock came two days later. Three taps. Measured.
Calm. Like a favor. I opened the door and saw my mom holding a brown paper bag like she was delivering cookies.
My dad stood slightly behind her, hands in his coat pockets. Face neutral. «Can we come in?» she asked, already stepping forward.
Lucas appeared beside me. I nodded slowly and let them in. They sat on the couch like they were guests.
My mom put the paper bag on the coffee table. «I brought some of that soup you like, the carrot one, from when you were sick that time.»
That time I was eight and she told me to stop crying because I wasn’t dying.
«That soup?»
«Thanks,» I said flatly.
She smoothed her coat and looked around the apartment like it might help her figure out what to say. My dad stayed standing.
«We spoke to the police,» she said finally. «They said you filed a report.»
«I did.»
She looked like she wanted to be offended but didn’t have the energy. «You should have just come to us first.»
«Would you have told me the truth?»
She paused, blinked.
«We didn’t want to hurt you.»
Lucas spoke. «So it’s true.»
My dad finally stepped forward.
«Yes,» he said, «you’re not biologically ours.»
I exhaled through my nose. Not relief, just confirmation of something I already knew but needed someone to say out loud.
My mom nodded. «Your mother was young, very young. She couldn’t take care of you.»
«She begged us to take you with us.»
«Begged?» I said.
«She wanted you to have a better life.»
«We were leaving and she was staying behind. It was war. She knew what that meant.»
«So where is she now?»
My mom folded her hands. «We don’t know.»
«You never checked.»
«It was complicated.»
Lucas crossed his arms. «Why fake the photos?»
My dad didn’t flinch.
«We didn’t want her to feel like she didn’t belong.»
«So you erased her real life and invented one?» Lucas asked.
My mom’s voice cracked. «You were five. You cried for her for weeks. It was awful.»
«But you adjusted. You forgot. We thought it was better that way.»
«You could have told me.»
«And said what?» she snapped. «That we took you from your mother? That you had a life you’d never remember? You would have hated us.»
«You think I don’t?»
Silence. Then she pulled something from her bag. A photo.
Me. Maybe six years old. Holding my dad’s hand.
«This one’s real,» she said. Like that was supposed to fix it. I didn’t touch it.
They stood. My dad looked at Lucas. Then at me.
«We didn’t steal you. We rescued you.»
I didn’t answer.
Neither did Lucas. And the worst part? For about ten seconds, I almost believed them. I didn’t ask them gently.
I said, «Tell me her name.»
My mom blinked like she didn’t understand the question. My dad did his usual thing where he rubbed his face like he was exhausted by the weight of having to deal with me.
«You were five,» she said. «Your memories. They aren’t reliable.»
«Try me.»
She shook her head. «We didn’t want to hurt you.»
«You already did.»
They looked at each other. Then my dad said the name like it was a confession.
«Mera Petravic.»
No address. No contact.
Just the name. When I asked for more, my mom said, «We lost touch. It was war.»
Right. And apparently, war also erases your ability to type a name into Google. We started searching that night.
Lucas was on his laptop. I was on mine. My Serbian is passable when I’m talking to elderly relatives about food.
But online research is another story. Mera Petravic. Apparently not an uncommon name.
There were a few dead ends. A florist in Novi Sad. A retired gym teacher in Belgrade.
Then I clicked on a grainy Facebook profile. No smile. No filters.
Just a woman with dark hair pulled back. Early 50s. Faint lines around her eyes.
And a face that made my stomach drop. I stared. Lucas leaned over.
«She looks like you,» he said.
I shook my head slowly. «No, I look like her.»
It wasn’t just a resemblance. It was the kind of similarity that makes you uncomfortable. The kind you don’t see in the mirror until someone else points it out.
Same jawline. Same eyes. Same expression when she wasn’t trying to have one.
She hadn’t posted in months, but her «About» section listed a town in southern Serbia. The same one I’d heard once in passing when I was 10 and my mom slipped up. We sent a message.
We used Google Translate. It probably sounded robotic, but Lucas checked it three times. I stared at the screen the entire time like it might answer me back.
«Hello, I was given your name. I think I might be your daughter.»
Then we waited.
She replied the next morning. One line: «Can we talk?»
We set up a video call.
I don’t remember agreeing to it. Lucas did all the clicking. I just sat there, wrapped in a blanket, feeling like I was about to meet someone from a dream I didn’t know I’d had.
