Who Stole My Daughter’s Future?

Emma sighed—the kind of sigh that sounds like patience worn thin—and called Eustace.

"Dad, come home. Now."

"Actually, bring something for Mom's head while you're at it. She's decided I'm fake again."

Eustace came rushing back and fixed me with a cold stare.

"Deidre, what the hell is wrong with you now?"

"Emma finally gets maternity leave, comes here for a few quiet days, and you can't stop making her life miserable?"

Emma stood beside him, eyes red, nodding along.

"Mom, I've been your daughter for all these years. I've been right here beside you the whole time. Can you really not tell whether I'm real or not?"

"Some scammer feeds you a few lines and you believe them, but you won't believe me. Why?"

I spoke coldly.

"Then do you dare take a DNA test with me?"

The blind girl's results were already back. Black and white on the page—she was my biological daughter. I had the proof in my hands. That was why I was this furious, this certain.

But to my surprise, Emma just looked at me with a weary sigh.

"Fine. If that's what it takes for you to believe me, we can go today."

She said it without flinching, without even a flicker of hesitation.

That afternoon, we went and had the test done.

The results showed she was indeed my biological daughter.

"Well, Deidre? Got anything left to say? This was all you—paranoid, delusional. How was Emma ever not our daughter?"

I went numb, gripping the paper so hard my knuckles ached.

How was this possible?

I checked it over and over. There was nothing wrong with the results.

Afraid someone might have tampered with the sample midway, I insisted: "Do it again."

I waited until Emma was asleep in the middle of the night, took a strand of her hair, and had a second test done in secret.

The results came back identical.

The Emma standing in front of me was also my biological daughter.

"Mom, I've been telling you. You're imagining all of this."

"Look at me—I look just like you. Compare me to my childhood photos. There's no difference at all."

"So how could I possibly not be your daughter?"

But the moment the words left her mouth, I cut her off, my face drained white.

"No. That's impossible."

"Something is wrong. There has to be."

A thought struck me and my head snapped up.

"Emma. When you were little, you were allergic to mango. One bite—just one. If you break out in a rash, I'll believe you."

Eustace cut me off, face like stone.

"Deidre, enough."

"She's about to give birth and you're pulling this?"

"She's pregnant. You want her to eat something she's allergic to? Are you trying to hurt her?"

"If anything happens, can you live with that?"

He signaled to the bodyguards beside him, and they pulled me away.

"Deidre, your mental state is getting worse by the day."

"Paranoid delusions, convinced someone's impersonating your daughter. You're not far from full-blown dementia at this rate."

He gave the guards a look. A moment later one of them was prying my jaw open, trying to force pills down my throat.

Then—like a wire snapping—I grabbed my phone and went live.

I aimed the camera straight at Eustace and Emma, pointed at them both, and said:

"I know exactly what's going on."