If she really loved her daughter, she thought, she would hand over every scrap of mail the second it arrived. She would tell her the truth, no matter how much it cost. But the fear of losing Emily gnawed louder than her conscience. So she made a decision. She would see the results first. She would decide when and how Emily learned the truth.
At least, that’s what she told herself. The days dragged like weights. Clara found herself watching Emily constantly, as if memorizing her before she was taken away. The way she brushed her hair into a messy bun before school, the way she hummed tunelessly while making tea, even the way she scribbled little notes in the margins of her textbooks.