At Christmas, my mom showed old photo albums. My fiancé froze and whispered: “Don’t you see it?”
And then her face appeared. She looked older than her profile photo. Tired, but still her.
Still me. She didn’t speak at first, just stared. Her hand went to her mouth like she needed to hold something in.
«I wasn’t sure,» she said finally. «But now that I see you…»
I wanted to say something, anything, but the words got stuck somewhere behind the lump in my throat.
«I’ve been looking for you for 25 years.» She said my name. It wasn’t Isabel back then. It was Milena.
I froze. Milena. It didn’t sound familiar, but it felt right.
Like a shoe I hadn’t worn in decades, but still fit. I blinked, trying to stay steady. «Did you give me up?»
Her face broke.
Not dramatically. Not like in the movies. Just this quiet collapse in her expression.
Her mouth opened, then closed again. «No,» she said. «God, no.»
She looked off-screen for a second like she needed to ground herself. Then she turned back. «You were five.»
«I had to leave you with someone I trusted. A neighbor. A friend.»
«Just for a couple of hours while I ran to the municipal office to finalize some papers. When I came back, you were gone.» She took a breath.
«They said she, your babysitter, left earlier. Said you went with her, but you never came home.» Her voice cracked.
«We searched. I went to every police station. Every camp.»
«I posted flyers. I called shelters. Everyone said children get lost during war.»
«But I knew you didn’t get lost.» She paused. «I just didn’t know where to look.»
I sat very still. Lucas was the one who asked, «Did you ever apply to leave?»
She nodded.
«I was approved for a resettlement program to the U.S. Families with children got priority. I had everything ready.» She looked at me then.
«But after you disappeared, they took me off the list. Not that I would have left without you.»
And then it hit me.
Harder than any memory ever had. That’s why. That’s why they took me.
Why they needed me. Why they edited me into those photos like I was some final puzzle piece. They didn’t take me because they loved me.
They took me because I got them out.
We sat in silence for a while after that. Her eyes were red.
Mine probably were too. Lucas didn’t say anything. Just sat next to me like he was trying to hold the edges of the room together.
«I never knew where you went,» she said softly. «I thought maybe someone took you over the border. I thought maybe you died.»
«I didn’t know what to hope for.»
I didn’t know what to say to that. What do you say to a woman who lost you? «They changed my name,» I said instead.
«Isabel,» she nodded, as if the sound of it hurt. «My ‘Lena’ was your grandmother’s name.»
I don’t know what I expected to feel.
Rage. Relief. I felt hollow, like someone had reached inside and scooped everything out, but politely left the shell so I could continue functioning in public.
Two weeks later, we stood side-by-side at the precinct. She wore a navy coat. I brought the photos.
The officer took our statements, asked us questions I barely remember answering. My mom—my real mom—unfolded a creased flyer from her purse. The original missing person’s notice.
My name, the first one, printed beneath a grainy photo. Milena Petrovic, age 5, last seen wearing a red scarf. «This is her,» she told the officer.
«This is my daughter.»
And for the first time, someone else nodded. We pressed charges, and I stopped pretending the past was something I owed to anyone but myself.
It didn’t go to trial. They were found guilty during the investigation. Immigration fraud.
Falsifying federal documents. Concealing a child abduction across international borders. Turns out they never gave up their Serbian passports.
They just tucked them away in a drawer, right next to their moral compass. Their American citizenship was revoked. They were deported within six months.
No appeals. No second chances. And they can never come back.
Nina stayed. Of course she did. She was born here.
At first, she didn’t say much. Just stared at the floor a lot. Then one day she came over and said, «That was really messed up.»
It wasn’t an apology exactly, but it was something. We talk more now than we ever did growing up. She’s not my sister by blood, but she still knows how I take my coffee.
And that counts for something. As for Mera, my real mother, she moved to the U.S. six months after everything settled. Family reunification program.
Lucas and I helped with the paperwork. She got a job at a bakery near our apartment. Says it reminds her of the one she worked at when she was 21, before everything happened.
We’re planning the wedding. She’s on the guest list. She cried when she got the invitation.
The people who raised me lost everything. And honestly, they built their life on a lie. So when it collapsed, I didn’t feel guilty.
I felt free!
