Chapter 1: The Call That Should Have Been Impossible
My only daughter died 13 years ago — yesterday, I received a call from the hospital saying, "Your daughter is here.
She's begging you to come."
When my phone rang on a Tuesday afternoon and a calm voice said,
"Hello, ma'am, I'm calling from the hospital.
Your daughter has been admitted,"
I nearly dropped the phone.
For thirteen years, I had lived with the kind of grief no mother ever truly survives.
"Ma'am, there must be some confusion," I told the nurse.
"Lily d*ed when she was 21.
I'm sure."
"She specifically asked us to call you as her emergency contact," the nurse continued, her voice growing uncertain.
"Are you sure this is wrong?"
It was cruel to play a joke like that on me.
And it was foolish of me to believe Lily could still be alive.
But I couldn't afford NOT to find out for myself.
I don't remember the drive to the hospital.
My vision was blurred with tears the whole way there.
At the ER, the nurse at the front desk gave me a sympathetic look.
"You need Room 4B," she said softly.
"Miss Lily and the doctor are waiting for you."
Miss Lily.
Hearing those words nearly made my knees give out.
Through the gap in the door, I could see a woman sitting on the exam table.
Dark hair falling across her shoulders.
Like my Lily once had.
She was holding something small against her ribs.
But I couldn't make it out clearly.
"Lily?" The name scraped against my throat.
"Please come in.
It would be better if you sat down," the doctor said.
Only then did the woman slowly turn around, stand up, and walk toward me.
One look at her face, and every bit of air left my lungs.
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Is that really Lily — or is someone using her name?
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