The Family Who Chose Me Back

Chapter 2 The Third Time

The next day, I went back to the shed.

I didn't tell anyone. I didn't even tell Cora, who had been watching me more closely since the dinner conversation. She knew something had changed. She just didn't know what.

I walked to Ellis Street after school, my heart pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. The shed was still there, still gray, still with its door slightly open. I pushed it and stepped inside.

The mirror was waiting.

"Hello, Maisie," the woman said. She was already there, already smiling. "You came back."

"I want to know more," I said. "Before I decide."

"Ask me anything."

I had a list of questions. I had written them down in my notebook the night before, in the dark, with a pencil I had stolen from Cora's desk. I pulled it out and unfolded it.

"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Here," she said. "And not here. The mirror is a door. Behind it is a place that looks like your world, but better. Cleaner. Kinder."

"Are there other people?"

"Some. Children who made the same choice you're making. They're happy, Maisie. They don't get left behind."

"What about my parents? Will they miss me?"

She tilted her head. "Do you think they will?"

I didn't answer. I didn't want to say no. I didn't want to admit that I had been testing them for years, leaving clues, waiting for them to notice. I had stopped eating dessert. I had started wearing the same clothes every day. I had stopped talking at dinner. And they hadn't noticed any of it.

"They didn't even ask why I wasn't hungry," I said.

"No," she said. "They didn't."

I looked at my reflection. I looked small. I looked tired. I looked like someone who had been waiting for a door to open.

"If I come with you," I said, "do I have to leave everything behind?"

"You can take one thing," she said. "Something small. Something that matters."

I thought about my blanket. It was pink and soft, and I had had it since I was a baby. It was the only thing in my room that felt like mine.

"My blanket," I said.

"Then that's what you'll bring."

I nodded. I felt tears in my eyes, but I didn't let them fall. I had learned not to cry in front of people who might use it against me. But this woman wasn't my mother. She wasn't my father. She was something else.

"Will you be my mom?" I asked.

She smiled. It was a real smile, not the tired one my mother gave me. "I'll be whatever you need."

"And will you leave me?"

"Never."

I believed her. I don't know why. Maybe because I wanted to. Maybe because she was the first person who had ever looked at me like I was worth keeping.

"When?" I asked.

"Tonight," she said. "When they're asleep. Come back here, and I'll open the door."

I nodded. I folded my notebook and put it back in my pocket. I took one last look at the mirror, at the woman who was going to be my new mother, and I walked home.

That night, I lay in bed and listened.

My parents were in the living room, watching TV. Cora was in her room, reading. The house was quiet except for the sound of the TV and the occasional murmur of my parents' voices.

I waited until the TV turned off. I waited until the footsteps went upstairs. I waited until the house was completely silent.

Then I got up.

I took my blanket from the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. I put on my sneakers. I opened my window.

The night air was cool. The street was dark. I climbed out onto the roof of the porch, then lowered myself to the ground. I had done it before, when I wanted to sit outside and look at the stars. I had never done it at midnight, though. I had never done it with a blanket around my shoulders and a decision in my chest.

I walked to Ellis Street. The shed was dark, but the door was open. The mirror was glowing. Not brightly, but enough to see.

The woman was waiting.

"You came," she said.

"I came."

She held out her hand. It was pale and soft, and it looked like it belonged to someone who had never had to do chores. I reached out and took it.

The glass rippled. I felt a pull, like a current in the ocean. I closed my eyes. When I opened them, I was standing in a different room.

It was warm. It was clean. It smelled like cinnamon and bread. There was a fireplace, and a couch, and a window that looked out onto a garden. There were no sticky notes. There were no lists. There was just a table with five plates on it.

"Welcome home," the woman said.

And for the first time in a long time, I believed it.

I don't know how long I was in the mirror world. I know it was long enough to start forgetting things. The sound of my mother's voice. The smell of my father's coffee. The way Cora laughed when she thought no one was listening.

The woman, whose name was Eliza, was kind. She made me breakfast every morning. She asked me how I slept. She tucked me in at night and told me stories about the garden and the birds and the children who had come before me.

There were other children. I met them in the garden. They were quiet and polite, and they all had the same look in their eyes. It was the look of someone who had been left behind and had found a place where that wouldn't happen again.

"What's your name?" I asked one of them, a boy with dark hair and a missing tooth.

"Oliver," he said.

"How long have you been here?"

He shrugged. "A long time. I don't remember my old house anymore."

I didn't ask any more questions. I didn't want to hear that he had forgotten. I didn't want to forget.

But the days passed. The mornings turned into afternoons. The afternoons turned into nights. And slowly, without noticing, I started to forget.

I forgot the color of my bedroom walls. I forgot the name of my teacher. I forgot the way my father hummed when he was working on his car. I forgot Cora's face.

One night, I woke up crying. I didn't know why. I just knew that something was missing.

Eliza came into my room. She sat on the edge of my bed and brushed the hair out of my face.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I don't remember my sister," I said.

She was quiet for a moment. "Do you want to remember her?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

I didn't have an answer. I just knew that forgetting felt like losing something important. I just knew that I didn't want to be someone who had no past.

Eliza sighed. "There's a rule," she said. "You can go back. But only if you're sure."

"Go back?"

"To visit. To see if they've changed. But if you go back, you have to be prepared for what you'll find."

"What will I find?"

"I don't know," she said. "That's the point."

I thought about it. I thought about my parents, about their tired faces and their lists. I thought about Cora, about the way she looked away when I asked for help. I thought about the third time, the dinner, the question I had asked and the answer they had given.

"I want to go back," I said.

Eliza nodded. She didn't look surprised. She didn't look disappointed. She just looked like she had been waiting for this.

"You have one week," she said. "After that, the door closes. And if you don't come back..."

"I'll be stuck," I said.

"Yes."

I took a breath. "I understand."

She kissed my forehead. "Then go."

I woke up in my own bed.

The ceiling was white. There was a c***k in it that looked like a river. My blanket was wrapped around me. I was wearing my own pajamas.

I sat up. The room was exactly how I had left it, but it felt different. Smaller. Dustier. Sadder.

I heard voices downstairs. My mother and father, talking in the kitchen. I crept to the top of the stairs and listened.

"The police are looking," my mother said. "They said they've had cases like this before. Kids who run away."

"She's been gone for two weeks," my father said. "She's not coming back."

I felt a stab in my chest. Two weeks. I had been gone for two weeks, and they were already giving up.

"We should call the foundation," my mother said. "About the trust. If she's not coming back, we can reallocate the funds."

I heard the clink of a coffee mug. I heard my father sigh.

"I'll call them tomorrow," he said.

I sat down on the top step. I felt cold. I felt small. I felt like I had been right all along.

But then I heard something else. A door opening. Footsteps in the hallway.

"Cora?" my mother said. "What are you doing up?"

"Where's Maisie?" Cora asked.

"We told you. She ran away."

"No," Cora said. "She didn't run away. She was taken. By someone. I saw her. I saw her walk to the old shed on Ellis Street."

There was a pause. I could hear my heart beating in my ears.

"Why didn't you tell us?" my mother asked.

"Because I thought she would come back," Cora said. Her voice cracked. "I thought she would miss us. I thought she would realize that we love her."

"You don't know that she was taken," my father said.

"I know," Cora said. "I know her. She wouldn't leave without telling me. She wouldn't leave without her blanket."

I looked down at my hands. I was holding my blanket. I had brought it back with me.

"Cora," my mother said. "Go to your room. We'll talk about this in the morning."

"No," Cora said. "I'm not going to my room. I'm going to find her."

She stomped toward the front door. I heard the lock turn. I heard the door open.

And then I heard her footsteps on the porch, and I knew I had to move.

I stood up and ran down the stairs.

"Cora!"

She turned around. Her face was pale. Her eyes were red. She looked like she had been crying for days.

"Maisie?" she whispered.

"It's me," I said.

She ran to me and hugged me so hard I couldn't breathe. I hugged her back. I felt her tears on my neck. I felt her heart pounding against my chest.

"Where did you go?" she asked. "What happened to you?"

"It's a long story," I said.

"I don't care," she said. "I want to hear it. I want to hear all of it."

My parents appeared in the doorway. My mother's face was white. My father's hand was shaking.

"Maisie," my mother said. "Oh my God, Maisie."

She rushed toward me, but I stepped back. I didn't mean to. It was just instinct. She stopped, hurt flickering across her face.

"We were so worried," she said. "We thought you were gone."

"Were you?" I asked. "Or were you just worried about the money?"

She flinched. My father put his hand on her shoulder.

"We're glad you're safe," he said. "That's all that matters."

"Is it?" I asked.

Nobody answered.

The next week was strange.

My parents were careful around me. They didn't give me chores. They didn't hand me lists. They asked me what I wanted for dinner. They asked me if I needed anything. They asked me how I was feeling.

But I could see it in their eyes. They were waiting for me to explain. They were waiting for me to tell them where I had been and why I had left. And every time I didn't, I could see them getting more frustrated.

"It's not fair," my mother said one night, when she thought I was asleep. "We've been nothing but patient with her. We've given her space. We've given her everything she needs. And she won't even talk to us."

"She's been through something," my father said. "We don't know what."

"She's always been like this," my mother said. "She's always been difficult. Even before she left, she was difficult. She asked too many questions. She needed too much attention. I don't know what to do with her."

I lay in bed and listened. I wasn't surprised. I had heard it before. But it hurt anyway. It hurt because I had hoped. I had hoped that my disappearance would make them see me. I had hoped that they would realize what they had lost.

But they hadn't. They had just found new things to complain about.

I got up and walked to the window. The moon was bright. The street was quiet. I thought about the mirror. I thought about Eliza. I thought about the garden and the children and the feeling of being wanted.

I had three days left. Three days to decide.

I didn't sleep that night. I sat by the window and watched the sky change from black to gray to pink. I watched the sun rise over the houses and the trees. I watched my mother leave for work and my father leave for his office. I watched Cora walk to the bus stop.

And then I made my decision.

I went to Cora's room.

She was sitting on her bed, reading a book. She looked up when I came in.

"Hey," she said.

"Hey."

I sat down next to her. I didn't know how to start. I had practiced it in my head, but the words didn't come out the way I wanted them to.

"I have to tell you something," I said.

She closed her book. "Okay."

I told her everything. About the shed. About the mirror. About Eliza. About the rules. About the third time. About the place where I had been.

She didn't interrupt. She didn't laugh. She just listened.

When I was done, she was quiet for a long time.

"So you can go back," she said.

"Yes."

"To the mirror world."

"Yes."

"And if you stay here, they'll keep treating you the same way."

I nodded. "Probably."

She looked at me. Her eyes were wet. "I don't want you to go."

"I don't want to go either."

"But you might."

"I don't know yet."

She took my hand. Hers was smaller than mine, but warmer. "If you go, will you remember me?"

"I'll try."

"Don't just try," she said. "Promise."

I looked at her. My sister. The one who always looked away. The one who never said anything that could be used against her. She was looking at me now. She was holding my hand.

"I promise," I said.

I had one day left.

I spent it with Cora. We walked to the park. We sat on the swings. We talked about nothing and everything. We talked about the time we had built a fort in the living room. We talked about the time we had made cookies and burned them. We talked about the time we had stayed up all night watching movies.

I didn't want to forget her. I didn't want to forget any of it.

That night, I went to the shed.

The mirror was waiting.

Eliza was there.

"You're back," she said.

"I'm back."

"Have you decided?"

I thought about my parents. I thought about their tired faces and their lists. I thought about Cora, about the way she had held my hand.

"No," I said.

She arched an eyebrow. "No?"

"I can't choose yet."

"Why not?"

I took a breath. "Because there's a rule, isn't there? One that you didn't tell me."

She was quiet.

"There's a reason you only take children who've been left behind three times," I said. "It's not just about being unwanted. It's about being replaced."

She didn't deny it.

"You want me to stay," I said. "But you also want me to know what I'm giving up."

"Yes," she said.

"So I can't choose until I know."

She nodded slowly. "That's true."

"Then I'm not ready," I said. "I need more time."

She looked at me. Her eyes were soft, but there was something else in them. Something like respect.

"All right," she said. "One more week."

I nodded. I turned to go.

"Maisie," she said.

I stopped.

"Good parents don't make their children prove their love," she said. "Remember that."

I walked home. The night was cold. The stars were out. I felt the blanket around my shoulders, and I felt the weight of my decision.

I wasn't ready to choose. Not yet.

But I was getting closer.