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My mum isn’t my mum.
The world around me comes crashing down like a tsunami hitting land.
If she’s not my mum... Who is she?
*** *** ***
I had no idea where I was going until I pulled into the car park of my dad’s work. Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare ahead at nothing. My grief has nowhere to go, and it’s building up to the point I can’t breathe.
I’ve been driving without a destination since I left the police station. When my car began to alert me that my petrol was running low, I ended up here—my dad’s place of work. I haven’t made a move to go inside, but something inside me is telling me I should be here.
Fog enshrouds the darkened car park, and grey clouds cover the moon like a blanket. The only light in the open space is the light hanging above the back-exit door of my dad’s offices.
“My mum isn’t my mum,” I whisper, lowering my gaze.
I don’t know who I am, and I have a feeling something inside that building will tell me.
I grab my phone, which I switched off earlier, and the keys to the office, which I keep in my bag, then make my way out of the car.
The wind whips around my face, slashing my hair across my cheeks as I make my way up to the door. Unlike this morning, the cold doesn’t bother me. I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything.
I close the door behind me and blindly make my way to my dad’s office, which is the first door down the hall. My cold fingers close around the handle and I push down. His office used to bring me warmth. It was like Sunday nights, when you sat in front of the fire, watching some drama show on the television with a snack your parents made. It was like Christmas morning and waking up with your entire family. That’s how this place felt to me. Now, as I step into his office, all I feel is dread. It weighs heavily in the pit of my stomach—just like the secrets I know are hidden here. I give myself a second before gathering myself to do what I need to do. And that’s to get answers. Answers I know my dad won’t share. Not truthfully.
And with that thought, I search every filing cabinet, every folder, every drawer, and even the safe. When I come up empty, I go back through it all again, hoping it slipped past me.
I’m not sure how long I keep looking, but when my eyes begin to burn from exhaustion, I know it’s been a while.
I collapse to the floor underneath the window, staring at his desk. Tears of anger, frustration, and helplessness fall down my cheeks.
It has to be here.
My gaze focuses on the bottom drawer as flashes of images sift through my mind. I had been around ten or eleven. A friend’s parent had just dropped me off as we had just got back from a school trip. Mum had been sick and couldn’t get me. One of the other parents arranged to drop me off with Dad since they lived close to his work. I remember sitting on his lap as he placed a file in the bottom drawer. And I remember thinking the drawer looked bigger on the outside.
I get to my knees, crawling closer to the desk to pull the drawer open. My small keychain light flickers, showing signs of the battery running out.
“Shit!”
I flip the lamp light on and bring it down to sit on the floor before going back to the task at hand. Files of different colours fill the compartment, so I remove them and place them down on the floor next to the lamp. I stare at the empty drawer, definitely seeing the size difference from the outside. I tap my knuckles against the hollow bottom, then a small, worn-out piece by the face of the drawer catches my attention. I reach up, snatching the letter opener from the desk. It fits perfectly inside the worn-out piece of wood, which easily pops up out of place.
I gently lower the piece of wood to the floor, like I’m scared someone will hear the secrets being opened like Pandora’s Box.
A thick file fills the entire drawer. There are a few tapes inside, but it’s the file that grabs my attention. It’s thick, and has ‘White’ written on the label, along with a bunch of other names. On that list is ‘Wright’, which is my mum’s maiden name.
I open it up, and a bunch of stuff jumps out at me. There’s a reference number to an old case dating back to before I was born. I flip through the pages, seeing it’s about a gang who ran drugs. It’s not until I flip to the end of that section that I see a statement from my dad. I hold my breath at the last part.
I remember sitting at the makeshift bar. A few girls were hovering, along with a few of the men.He lists a bunch of names I’m not familiar with, but I continue on.I was about to make my exit when everything became a blur. I woke up naked, with Vicky Wright naked next to me. It was clear to me that we had sex—without my knowledge or consent.
Who is Vicky Wright?
I move to the next section, which includes a paternity letter stating Evan Smith is the father of Imogen Wright.
Tears gather in my eyes. None of this makes sense.
I turn the page, seeing a victim statement signed by my mum. I can barely catch my breath as I read her words. I can feel the fear and pain coming from the page. She had been attacked in her flat, where her niece slept in the next room. The words after have been blacked out, and I don’t understand why. Or why my aunt Denny never mentioned this.
I keep reading the statements, until I get to a report made by Melanie, my mum’s friend and old neighbour. It’s a child abduction report, and it’s my name on the paper. Or at least, I’m assuming I was once Imogen Wright.
I keep going until the very last page. I was kidnapped, taken by the man named on the label to this section.
