Sarah's POV
The paint samples spread across my lap like fallen autumn leaves, soft yellow, mint green, lavender, and the palest of pinks. Outside, rain tapped against the windows of our home,our mansion, as some would call it. But inside this room, time seemed to stand still, caught between what was and what should have been.
"The lavender would be nice," I murmured to myself, holding the swatch up to catch the light. "It's gentle. Soothing."
The room was already a soft cream color, perfectly acceptable for a nursery. But it wasn't 'her' nursery. Not yet. The walls needed to be just right, just as they had been for Olivia fifteen years ago.
Fifteen years. The thought made my chest tighten. Fifteenbirthdays I'd missed. Fifteen years of first words, first steps, first days of school, all gone. I brushed my fingers across the lavender swatch again, wondering if she would have liked purple. Olivia had always preferred pink.
"Sarah?" Michael's voice broke through my thoughts, and I quickly gathered the paint samples, tucking them between the pages of the interior design magazine on my lap. "Sarah, are you in here again?"
He appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the hallway light. His face, once so carefree, now wore permanent creases of worry, most of them because of me, I knew.
"Just looking at some ideas," I said, gesturing vaguely around the empty room. "This space gets such beautiful morning light. It seems a waste not to use it."
Michael stepped inside, his footsteps hesitant, as if entering sacred ground. In many ways, it was. This was the room that should have held our second daughter's crib, her toys, and herlaughter. Instead, it had remained empty all these years, a silent monument to our impossible choice.
"Sarah," he said, sitting beside me on the window seat, "we talked about this. We agreed to make it a guest room, remember?"
I nodded, though we both knew I had never truly agreed. I had merely stopped arguing.
"I just thought... maybe something brighter than cream for the walls." I opened the magazine, revealing the paint swatches. "Lavender might be nice."
Michael's sigh was so quiet I almost didn't hear it. "Lavender for a guest room?"
"Why not?" I kept my voice light, though my knuckles were white against the glossy pages. "It's a calming color."
For a moment, he said nothing, just studied my face with those deep brown eyes that had once made me feel so seen, so understood. Now they made me feel exposed, as if he could peer straight through to the hollowness inside me that had never filled, not with wealth, not with success, not with all our beautiful things.
"I have to get back to work," he said finally, standing up. "Conference call with the Boston team. Will you be okay?"
I offered him the smile I'd perfected over the years, bright enough to reassure, empty enough to be honest. "Of course. I'm just playing with ideas."
He hesitated, then leaned down to kiss the top of my head. "Don't forget, we have dinner with the Millers tonight. Seven o'clock."
"Seven o'clock," I repeated. "I'll be ready."
After he left, the room seemed to expand around me, growing larger and emptier than before. I set the magazine aside and walked to the center of the space, turning slowly to take it all in. The room was spacious, certainly larger than the entire apartment Michael and I had lived in when the twins were born. When the choice was made.
We'd been so young then, so desperate. Twins had never been part of our plan. One baby was already going to stretch our meager resources to the breaking point. Two seemed impossible. The doctor had looked at us with such sympathy when he confirmed it, twins, twin girls. Two heartbeats when we'd barely prepared for one.
"We can't keep both of them," I had whispered to Michael one night, my hand resting on my swollen belly. "We can barely afford one."
The words had tasted like ash in my mouth, but the math was undeniable. Michael's fledgling furniture business was barely breaking even. My part-time job at the diner wouldn't cover the cost of formula for one baby, let alone two. We had no family to help, no support system.
The adoption agency had promised us they would find a good home for one of our daughters. They assured us the Phillips family was kind, stable, loving. They would give her everything we couldn't.
Everything except her mother. Her father. Her twin.
I shook my head, dispelling the memories. That was then. This was now. Now, we had money. Now, we had this five-bedroom house in the best neighborhood. Now, Olivia attended a prestigious private school and had everything a child could want.
Except her sister.
I walked to the closet and slid open the door. Inside, hidden behind garment bags of off-season clothes, was a cardboard box. I pulled it out with trembling hands and carried it to the center of the room.
I didn't need to open it to know what was inside. I'd packed it myself fifteen years ago, when we'd made our choice. But I opened it anyway, peeling back the tape carefully, as if something might escape.
Inside, nestled in a paper bag, were two identical baby blankets, soft pink with white satin edges. Two matching stuffed rabbits, their fur plush and white. Two tiny hats from the hospital, each with a tag. Baby Girl Reynolds A. Baby Girl Reynolds B.
I lifted one of the blankets to my face, breathing deeply, searching for some lingering scent of newborn, of milk and powder and infinite possibility. But there was nothing. Just the faint mustiness of storage and time.
"Sarah?" Michael's voice called from downstairs. "Can you come look at this proposal before I send it?"
I quickly folded the blanket and returned it to the box, my movements practiced and swift. By the time I closed the closet door, my face was composed again, my eyes dry.
"Coming," I called back, my voice steady.
****
The dinner with the Millers dragged on endlessly. Caroline Miller detailed her recent trip to Paris, while her husband Roger discussed investment opportunities with Michael. I nodded and smiled in all the right places, asked appropriate questions, and refilled wine glasses before they emptied.
The perfect hostess. The perfect wife. The perfect façade.
"Your home is just exquisite, Sarah," Caroline gushed, running her fingers along our imported marble countertop. "You have such an eye for design."
"Thank you," I said, serving the crème brûlée I'd spent hours perfecting that morning. "It's a work in progress."
"Isn't everything?" she laughed, the sound like crystal breaking. "Roger and I are thinking of expanding our place in Aspen. Adding a spa area. You simply must give me the name of your interior designer."
"I did most of it myself, actually," I said, not mentioning the hours I spent poring over design magazines, searching for something, anything to fill the emptiness inside me. "It keeps me busy."
"How industrious," she replied, her tone making it clear she found the idea distasteful. In our circle, hiring others to create beauty was the expected approach. Getting your hands dirty was for the less fortunate, people like we used to be.
Later, after the Millers had gone and Michael had retired to his study to finish some work, I found myself drawn back to the empty nursery. I'd left a lamp on inside, and its warm glow beckoned me from the hallway like a lighthouse guiding a ship to shore.
I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me. The room was peaceful at night, bathed in golden light that softened its emptiness. I walked to the window seat and sat down, looking out at the manicured garden below, the swimming pool gleaming silver in the moonlight.
But sitting here, in this empty room that should have held my second daughter, none of it felt right. None of it felt worth the cost.
I must have dozed off there on the window seat, because the next thing I knew, Michael was gently shaking my shoulder.
"Sarah," he whispered, his voice thick with concern. "It's two in the morning. Come to bed."
I blinked up at him, disoriented. "I was just resting my eyes."
"In here? Again?" The worry in his face deepened. "Sarah, this isn't healthy."
"I'm fine," I insisted, standing up too quickly and swaying slightly.
Michael steadied me, his hands warm and strong on my shoulders. For a moment, I leaned into him, allowing myself the comfort of his strength. Then I straightened, pulling away.
"I've been thinking," I said, my voice sounding distant even to my own ears. "What if we found her?"
Michael's hands fell away from me. "Found who?"
But he knew. Of course he knew.
"Our daughter," I said. The words felt strange on my tongue, forbidden and sacred at once. "Olivia's twin. We have money now. Resources. We could find her."
Michael took a step back, his face shadowed in the dim light. "Sarah, we agreed. Closed adoption. We signed the papers."
"That was then," I said, my voice rising despite my efforts to stay calm. "Things are different now. We could give her everything."
"She already has everything," Michael said gently. "She has parents who've raised her from birth. A life, a home."
"But not us," I whispered. "Not her sister."
"Sarah,"
"Don't you ever wonder?" I pressed, moving closer to him. "Don't you ever look at Olivia and wonder what her sister looks like now? If she has the same laugh? The same way of wrinkling her nose when she's concentrating?"
Pain flashed across Michael's face, so raw and honest that I knew I'd struck a nerve. He did wonder. Of course he did.
"Every day," he admitted quietly. "But wondering isn't the same as disrupting a child's life. She doesn't know us, Sarah. We're strangers to her."
"We're her parents," I insisted.
"Not anymore." His words hit me like a physical blow. "We gave up that right fifteen years ago."
I turned away from him, back toward the window. Outside, the world was still and dark, the neighboring houses silent monuments to other people's lives, other people's choices.
"I need to do something with this room," I said finally. "I can't stand seeing it empty anymore."
Behind me, I heard Michael sigh with relief, thinking I was letting go of my impossible quest. "The guest room idea is good. Or maybe a home office for you? Somewhere to plan your charity events."
I nodded, not turning around. "Maybe."
Eventually, he left, murmuring something about getting some sleep before his early meeting. I heard our bedroom door close down the hall, but I remained at the window, my reflection ghostly in the glass.
****
The next day, I waited until Michael left for work and Olivia for school before making the call.
"Suave Interiors," I said to the receptionist. "I'd like to schedule a consultation. For a nursery."
Three weeks later, while Michael was on a business trip to Chicago and Olivia was at a friend's birthday sleepover, the work began. I supervised every detail, the removal of the cream paint, the careful application of lavender to the walls. The installation of plush white carpet, soft enough for a baby's knees. The delivery of a white crib with delicate scrollwork, a changing table, a rocking chair upholstered in the softest velvet.
"Your grandbaby will love this room," the designer said as we arranged stuffed animals in the crib. "When is your daughter due?"
"Soon," I said, smoothing a hand over the tiny quilt I'd secretly purchased. "Very soon."
By the time Michael returned from his trip, the room was complete. I didn't try to hide it. I left the door open, the new white curtains billowing gently in the breeze from the open window.
I was sitting in the kitchen when I heard his footsteps stop abruptly in the hallway. Then the sound of the luggage dropping to the floor. Then silence.
I counted my heartbeats, one, two, three, four, five, before rising from my chair and walking up the stairs to meet him.
He stood in the doorway of the nursery, his face pale, his eyes fixed on the crib.
"Sarah," he said, his voice barely audible. "What have you done?"
I moved to stand beside him, taking in my creation through his eyes. The lavender walls. The white furniture. The row of stuffed animals watching over an empty crib. The small dresser filled with carefully folded baby clothes, all for an eight-year-old girl who wasn't coming home.
"I needed to see it," I said simply. "I needed to know what it would have been like."
Michael turned to me then, and the fear in his eyes nearly broke me. "This isn't right," he said. "You know this isn't right."
I did know. Somewhere deep inside, past the grief and the guilt and the endless what-ifs, I knew this room was a shrine to a loss I'd never properly mourned. A fantasy that could never be real.
"I'm going to find her," I said, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "With or without your help. I need to know she's okay. I need to see her face just once."
Michael's hand found mine, squeezing so tightly it almost hurt. "Sarah, please. Let's get you some help. Someone to talk to about this."
"I don't need a therapist," I snapped, pulling my hand away. "I need my daughter."
"And what about Olivia?" Michael asked, his voice gentle but firm. "What do you think this would do to her? Finding out she has a twin sister we gave away? That we lied to her all these years?"
The question hit me like ice water. Olivia. Our beautiful, sensitive daughter who already felt she had to compete for our attention with our careers, our social obligations. How would she feel knowing there was another girl out there who similar qualities like her? Whom we had chosen not to keep?
"I would never hurt Olivia," I whispered.
"I know," Michael said, stepping closer, tentative, as if approaching a wounded animal. "You're a wonderful mother, Sarah. But this," he gestured to the nursery ", this isn't healthy. For any of us."
That night, long after Michael had fallen asleep, I crept back to the nursery. The moonlight spilled through the curtains, casting silver shadows across the empty crib. I sat in the rocking chair, pushing myself slowly back and forth, imagining the weight of a baby in my arms.
What would she look like now? Would her hair be long like Olivia's, or cut short? Would she like the same books, the same music? Did she have friends who made her laugh? Teachers who recognized her intelligence? Parents who treasured every moment with her?
The adoption agency had promised updates, but only for the first year. After that, silence. A clean break, they called it. Better for everyone.
Better for whom?
I rose from the rocking chair and crossed to the crib, my fingers trailing along its smooth white rail. Inside, a small stuffed lamb lay against the pillow, its glass eyes reflecting the moonlight.
"I should have fought harder for you," I whispered to the empty crib, to the daughter who wasn't there. "I should have found a way to keep you both."
Tears blurred my vision as I clutched the crib rail.
But now, looking back with the clarity of time and the security of wealth, I saw how temporary those struggles would have been. A few difficult years, yes. But nothing compared to the lifetime of regret I now carried.
"I'll find you someday," I whispered, brushing away my tears. "I promise."
I didn't hear Michael in the doorway until he spoke, his voice rough with emotion.
"Sarah," was all he said, but in that one word was a universe of concern, of love, of fear.
I turned to him, no longer hiding my tears. "I can't let go," I admitted. "I've tried. For eight years, I've tried."
Michael crossed the room and took me in his arms, holding me as I cried against his chest. "I know," he murmured into my hair. "I know."
We stood there in the moonlight, surrounded by the trappings of infancy, mourning not just the baby we'd given up, but the parents we might have been, the family that might have filled this home with chaos and laughter and the beautiful mess of raising twins.
And in that moment of shared grief, I felt closer to Michael than I had in years. Because despite all our success, all our wealth, all our careful planning, we'd both been haunted by the same ghost, the shadow of a little girl who shared our blood but not our name, our features but not our lives.
"We'll figure this out," Michael promised, his voice steady despite the tears I felt dampening my hair. "Together. But not like this, Sarah. Not with secrets and a nursery for a child who isn't coming home."
I nodded against his chest, exhausted by the weight of my obsession, by the years of carrying this burden alone.
"Will you help me find her?" I asked, pulling back to look into his eyes. "Just to know she's okay?"
Michael hesitated, then nodded slowly. "If that's what you need to heal. But we do it right. Legal. Respectful of her family and her life."
"And Olivia?"
"We'll tell her when the time is right," he said. "Together."
I turned back to the crib one last time, reaching in to touch the soft lamb that would never comfort my child. "I'll find you someday," I whispered again, a promise carried on the night air. "And until then, I'll keep a place for you. Always."
Outside, the moon slipped behind a cloud, and the nursery fell into darkness, the crib just a shadow among shadows, empty, waiting, like my heart.