Trigger Warning: Attempted Suicide/Self-Harm
My newest patient was a 55-year-old lady called Mary Peterson. With pale skin, brown hair, and grey eyes, she looked very much like an older version of myself.
"Anna," said the lady, hugging me tight; I didn’t even know who she was, but she acted as if she had met a long-lost relative.
"I'm sorry, but I’m not Anna. I’m Doctor Ella Rosairo."
"Oh, I am sorry, doctor. You look just like my daughter, Anna, beauty spot and all. She was abducted when she was just three years old," said Mary with misty eyes. She grabbed her phone. "Here," she said, showing a photo of a little girl.
I couldn't believe my eyes. Anna not only had the same beauty spot I did, but also the same teddy bear with the broken nose that I cherished as a child.
"Do you still have that teddy?"
"No, it disappeared along with Anna. Why?"
"Oh, no reason in particular; just making conversation," I replied with a smile. The appointment left me unable to focus on anything else. I needed answers—and I needed them fast.
As soon as Mary left, I cancelled the rest of my appointments and hurried home. As I drove, all I could think of was Mary’s sad face, and her missing daughter who looked a lot like me. Was I Anna? What about the woman who raised me? Was she really my mother?
I stopped at the park near my house to gather my thoughts before rushing home to confront Joanne: the woman whom I believed to be my mother all my life. Half an hour later, I left the park and headed straight home.
"Ella, is that you?" Joanne asked from her bedroom as I stepped inside.
"Yes, mom, I’m home."
"What are you doing here this early? Haven't you got work?"
"Mom, there’s something I need to ask."
"What is it, hon? Is something wrong?"
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. "Is my name Anna?"
Joanne’s eyes almost widened for a second there. "What? What do you mean? You've been working too hard, hon."
"Answer the question, mom. Is my name really Ella, or is it Anna?"
"Who told you such a lie? I’m the one who raised you for so long," she said with tears in her eyes.
"Mom, I love you, but you need to tell me the truth. I deserve to know!"
"You want to know the truth? Alright, fine. Back when I worked as a social worker, I was called to check the situation at a house following reports of child abuse. That was your house, Ella," she said, letting out a long sigh. "The truth is: your father was an abusive alcoholic. I tried talking your mother into leaving him, but she refused every time. She just kept blaming herself. Whenever I visited, you were always bruised or scarred, and your mother would make stupid excuses to cover up your father's faults. I tried to get you into foster care, but I failed," she said.
My heart began to pound as my eyes welled up with tears. The look in Joanne’s eyes, and the tears that she shed—they were not that of a criminal. It was that of the loving parent I had known all my life. I had no doubt that she spoke the truth.
"I couldn't have a child of my own because I had endometrial cancer. Eventually, it cost me my uterus—and my marriage. Your parents didn't even bother to take care of you; I couldn’t just sit by and watch. You knew me, so you willingly came. Some would call it 'kidnapping', but I call it 'rescue'. That's the truth; do with it as you wish. Just remember: all I wanted was to keep you safe. I have proof of the abuse. There is a box marked 'Anna' in the basement. There are photos and reports of the times I visited your home, as well as hospital records."
Hearing this, I rushed to the basement to search for the box. I opened it and went through its contents one by one as tears cascaded down my face. She was telling the truth: she did rescue me. If she hadn't, I wouldn't have lived to become the person I was that day. I rushed back up, but only to find her lying on the floor with her wrists slit.
"Mom, what have you done?" I screamed while wrapping her wrists with my scarves.
"I am sorry for everything. Please don't hate me," she said, caressing my face.
"No, mom, I don't hate you... I love you. You rescued me from my horrible parents," I said as my body trembled. I couldn't bear the thought of losing her. "If not for you, I would be dead. I am a doctor thanks to you, mom," I said.
The ambulance arrived soon after and I took her to the hospital. She made a full recovery. I decided not to linger in my past and move on. I was better off with the mother who raised me than the one who gave me life, because she put me first and herself second. My biological mother preferred to stay with my abusive father than keep me, her only child, safe. Why should I think of her and give up the woman who risked everything to protect me? After all, it isn't blood that makes a parent; it's character.
A year passed by and I got married. I asked my mother who raised me to give me away. I hoped that someday, I could be to my children the kind of mother she was to me. I was in Paris on my honeymoon when I got a call from St. Andrew's Hospital, my place of work. Rita, one of my fellow doctors and close friends, said it was an emergency.
"Rita, what's going on? Is everything all right over there?" I asked. "Ella, please don't panic, but your mom is in the hospital."
"What, why is my mother in the hospital?"
"She was shot."
"What!" I shouted as the phone slipped off my hand and fell to the floor. It felt as if the room was spinning, so I held on to the wall.
"Ella!" yelled Warren, my husband, rushing towards me. By the time I regained consciousness, I was lying in bed, with Warren sitting by my side and a doctor examining me.
"Oh, thank god!" said Warren with a sigh of relief.
"What happened?"
"You fainted and I couldn't revive you, so I called the reception and they sent me the hotel's MD."
"The stress caused your blood pressure to spike, but you're fine now; just try to relax, Mrs. Sanders," the doctor said; "and Mr. Sanders, call me if there is anything." He left soon after.
"You heard the doctor: you need to relax," said Warren, touching my head.
"Wait, I remember talking to Rita; she said that mom was shot."
"Yes, but don't panic. Your mom is alive and stable."
"I want to go home now!"
"I’ll call the airlines and book the first flight home," he replied, grabbing his phone off the nightstand.
I sat up and tried to get off the bed, but Warren said I shouldn’t be moving about. I asked him to call Rita, but he told me not to worry about it—that he had already spoken to her. As he turned around to leave the room, I got off the bed and snatched my phone from the nightstand. I hid it in my robe and said I was going to the bathroom.
I made a call to Rita, and she told me that my mom was in a coma. It was overwhelming: I felt my head spin again. I leaned against the wall as I began to slip out of consciousness. "Ella!" I heard Warren yell as he rushed into the bathroom. I wasn't completely out, but I was too weak to stand, so he carried me to the bed.
After the hotel MD checked me again, and after a night of no sleep, Warren and I left to see my mom on the earliest flight available. After what felt like an eternity had passed, we were finally at the hospital. My heart sank when I saw my mom. I felt helpless—unable to do a damn thing for her. I sat by her bed, holding her hand and reading her favourite novel. I must have dozed off, because I later woke up to her touch. I hugged her tight the moment I saw her smiling face.
"Oh, mom, I'm glad you're awake," I said with a sigh of relief. Warren came in and was shocked to see my mom awake. The doctors said she could leave once she had made a full recovery. The police arrived and questioned her about the shooting, but she denied seeing the shooter's face. I knew she was lying because she had a 'tell': she could never keep eye contact when she lied.
Once the cops left, I held her hand. "Mom, tell me who shot you."
"I don't know; I didn't see their face," she said, looking away.
"Mom, I know you're lying. What I don't understand is why?" I said.
She sighed and looked down. "It was your biological mother."
My heart began to race and my hands started to tremble. "Excuse me," I said, rushing out of the room as my mom kept calling out to me.
I went into my office and checked Mary's file. I noted down her address and took a taxi to her home. She let me in after I banged at her door angrily.
"Hello, doctor," she said, trying to hide her fear.
"Why did you shoot my mother?" I yelled.
"I’m your mother! I knew it the day I met you, but I wasn’t completely sure until I saw your wedding photos and videos on social media. The woman you call your mother stole you from me! When I confronted her, she didn't even deny it. She said she took you to keep you safe. I was furious! It should have been me who gave you away, not her," she said with tear-filled eyes.
"I know about all that. But you didn't put me first, she did. I can forgive you for your previous negligence, but I can’t forgive you for this. You need to turn yourself in, or I will do it for you."
I turned to leave as my eyes teared up. I might have done the same if I were in her position. Mary handed herself over to the police and went to prison for attempted murder. I started visiting her every now and then after a month had passed.
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