It happened on a Tuesday. The sky was gray and heavy, the kind of dull color that makes everything feel weighted down. I was folding laundry in the living room, sorting Lily’s tiny socks into pairs, when I heard the knock.
When I opened the door, a woman stood there. She was tall and graceful, maybe in her late 30s, with dark hair pulled into a neat bun.
Her coat was perfectly pressed, her posture straight, but her hands were trembling slightly as she clutched a large brown envelope to her chest.
“Are you Emily?” she asked.
I nodded, confused. “Yes. Can I help you?”
She hesitated for a long moment. Finally, she said, “I think you might be raising my daughter.”
For a second, I didn’t understand what she meant. Her daughter? Lily? How could that even be possible?
“I’m sorry, there must be a mistake. You have the wrong house.”
She shook her head slowly and held out the envelope.
“No mistake,” she said softly. “My name is Grace. Five years ago, I went through a fertility clinic to have a child. I couldn’t carry a baby myself, so I hired a surrogate.”
She paused, eyes filling with tears. “Your sister, Laura, was my surrogate.”
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