The Missing Piece

Eleanor's POV

The rain tapped against the windows in a soothing rhythm as I folded the last of the laundry, my mind drifting to the weekend plans. Robert would be home from his business trip tomorrow, and Emma had been begging to go to that new aquarium that had opened in the city. Perhaps Sunday would be perfect for that, assuming the weather cleared.

"Mom?" Emma's voice called from upstairs, pulling me from my thoughts.

"Yes, sweetheart?" I answered, placing the neatly folded towels in the basket.

"Can you come up here? I found something."

There was something in her tone that made me pause, a hesitancy, a confusion that sent a small shiver down my spine. I set the laundry basket on the couch and made my way upstairs, following her voice to our bedroom.

The door was ajar, and I found Emma sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by old photo albums that should have been tucked safely away in the back of our closet. My heart lurched painfully in my chest as I realized which album lay open in her lap, the burgundy leather one with gold embossing, the one that held our carefully curated collection of family photographs. The one that documented our journey to her.

"Emma," I said, trying to keep my voice light. "What are you doing in here, honey?"

She looked up at me, her fingers tracing the edge of a photograph. At fifteen years old, she was at that precarious age, still a child in so many ways, but beginning to ask more questions, to notice the subtle inconsistencies in the world around her.

"I was looking for that science project from last year," she explained. "The one with the solar system? I wanted to show Zoe what I did so she can get ideas for hers. Dad said it might be in that box of school stuff in your closet."

My eyes went to the open closet door where several storage boxes had been shifted around. Robert and I had meant to organize those, to separate the keepsakes from the everyday items. We'd meant to prepare for this moment, but somehow there had never seemed to be a right time.

"And you found the albums instead," I said, moving to sit beside her on the floor.

She nodded, her eyes returning to the photograph. "Mom, why don't I look like you or Dad?"

The question hung in the air between us, simple and devastating in its directness. I had rehearsed this moment countless times in my mind over the years, practiced the words in front of mirrors and in quiet prayers, but now that it was here, my carefully prepared speech evaporated.

Emma was looking at a family portrait taken at her fifth birthday party. Robert and I stood behind her, all three of us smiling widely at the camera. Robert with his sandy brown hair and hazel eyes, me with my auburn curls and green eyes, and Emma, beautiful Emma, with straight black hair and blueeyes that sometimes looked almost sapphire in certain lights.

"Well," I began, my throat suddenly dry. "People don't always look exactly like their parents. Genetics can be complicated."

Emma's brow furrowed. "But Madison looks exactly like her mom. And Zoe has her dad's freckles and her mom's curly hair." She flipped through more pages of the album, pausing on a picture of Robert's parents. "I don't look like Grandma or Grandpa Phillips either."

I took a deep breath, feeling the moment teetering on a precipice. Robert and I had always planned to tell Emma she was adopted. We'd promised each other, and the adoption counselor, that we would choose the right moment, when she was old enough to understand but young enough that it would simply become part of her story, not a shocking revelation.

But we'd been waiting for the perfect time, and perhaps there never was one.

"Emma," I said gently, closing the album and taking her small hands in mine. "There's something very special about you and about our family that Dad and I have been waiting to talk to you about."

Her eyes widened slightly, a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. "What is it? Am I in trouble?"

"No, sweetie, not at all," I assured her, squeezing her hands. "It's something wonderful, actually. You see, most babies grow in their mommy's tummies before they're born, right?"

She nodded, her science classes having covered the basics of where babies come from.

"Well, you grew in another woman's tummy. And when you were born, she and your biological father made a very difficult but loving decision. They decided that they wanted you to have a different life than they could give you at that time. So they chose Dad and me to be your parents."

Emma's brow furrowed deeper, her eyes darting between mine as she processed this information. "So... I'm adopted?"

The word sounded strange coming from her mouth, as if she'd been turning it over in her mind for some time before saying it aloud.

"Yes," I confirmed, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure she could hear it. "We adopted you when you were just a tiny baby. But you are absolutely our daughter in every way that matters."

Emma stared down at the album, then back up at me. "Is that why there aren't any pictures of me as a brand new baby? Like, in the hospital?"

I nodded, feeling a lump form in my throat. The earliest photos we had were of Emma at two weeks old, the day we brought her home. We'd decorated the nursery with balloons and a banner that read "Welcome Home, Emma!" Robert and I looked exhausted but ecstatically happy in those pictures, our faces glowing with the kind of joy that comes from a dream fulfilled after years of heartbreak.

"We have your baby footprints from the hospital," I offered. "And some beautiful letters from the adoption agency. Would you like to see those?"

She didn't answer immediately, instead turning back to the album and flipping to the page with her infant pictures. Her finger traced the outline of her own tiny face.

"Did my real mom and dad not want me?" she asked, her voice so small it nearly broke me.

The question pierced my heart like a physical pain. I gently turned her face toward mine, making sure she could see the truth in my eyes.

"First of all, Dad and I are your real parents," I said firmly. "We've loved you and taken care of you every day since you came home with us. But your birth parents, that's what we call the people who gave you life, they wanted you very, very much."

"Then why did they give me away?" The confusion in her voice was palpable.

I chose my words carefully. "Sometimes adults have to make very hard decisions because they want what's best for their children, even when it hurts them deeply. Your birth parents were very young, and they didn't have the resources to take care of a baby. They wanted you to have a stable home with parents who could give you everything you deserved."

"Were they poor?" Emma asked.

"They were struggling," I acknowledged. "But that doesn't mean they didn't love you. In fact, giving you up for adoption was probably the most loving thing they could have done. It takes incredible strength and selflessness to put your child's needs above your own feelings."

Emma seemed to consider this, her expressive face cycling through confusion, hurt, and thoughtfulness. "Do you know who they are? My birth parents?"

Another question I'd prepared for, but still felt uncertain answering. "We know some things about them. It was what's called a closed adoption, which means we didn't meet them in person, and they chose not to maintain contact after you were born."

"So they didn't want to know me?" The hurt in her voice was unmistakable.

I pulled her into my lap, even though she was getting almost too big for it. "No, sweetheart, that's not it at all. Sometimes it's too painful for birth parents to stay in touch. They might have worried it would confuse you or make things complicated. But they made sure we would love you and take good care of you."

Emma leaned her head against my shoulder, and we sat in silence for a few moments, the rain still pattering softly against the windows. I stroked her hair, the same silky black hair that had been just peach fuzz when we first held her.

"Can I meet them someday?" she asked finally.

I swallowed hard. The adoption agency had mentioned this possibility, had prepared us for the day when Emma might want to search for her birth parents. They'd explained that many adoptees eventually feel a need to understand their origins, to see the faces of the people who gave them life.

"When you're older, if that's something you want to do, Dad and I will help you," I promised. "There are processes for that, and we'll support you every step of the way."

"What if they don't want to meet me?" The vulnerability in her question made my heart ache.

"Then that would be their loss," I said firmly. "Because you are the most wonderful, brilliant, loving girl in the world, and anyone would be lucky to know you."

She played with a loose thread on my sweater, her brow still furrowed in thought. "Do I have any brothers or sisters? Like, birth brothers or sisters?"

The question caught me off guard, though it shouldn't have. It was a natural thing to wonder. "No… The adoption agency didn't tell us about any other children," I lied.

Robert and I had decided that, whenever she asked, we won't tell her she was a twin. Since her birth parents didn't want that, and I also wasn't ready to lose my daughter.

"I always wanted a sister," Emma said wistfully.

"I know, sweetie." I kissed the top of her head. "Dad and I tried to give you one, remember? But sometimes things don't work out the way we plan."

Emma knew about our failed attempts to have another child, about the miscarriages that had left me bedridden with grief. She had been six the last time, old enough to understand that the baby in Mommy's tummy had gone to heaven, too young to fully grasp the toll it had taken on our family.

"I have another question," Emma said, pulling back to look at me. "If my birth parents were poor, does that mean I would have been poor too if they kept me?"

The question startled me with its perceptiveness. "Possibly," I admitted. "But being rich or poor doesn't determine whether someone is happy or loved. Your birth parents made their decision based on many factors, not just money."

"Like what Dad always says about true wealth being people who love you," Emma mused, and I smiled at the memory of Robert's words from the story she'd shared with me after their heart-to-heart during the move.

"Exactly like that," I agreed. "And you, Emma Phillips, are the wealthiest girl I know when it comes to being loved."

She smiled at that, a small, uncertain smile, but genuine nonetheless. Then her face grew serious again. "Does this mean I'm not really a Phillips?"

"You are absolutely a Phillips," I said firmly. "Being adopted means you became part of our family legally and in our hearts. Your birth certificate has our names on it. Your last name is Phillips. You're as much a Phillips as Dad or me or Grandma and Grandpa."

"But my blood isn't Phillips blood," she persisted.

I took her hand and pressed it against my heart. "Family isn't made by blood, Emma. It's made by love and commitment and showing up for each other every single day. You've been our daughter since the moment we first held you, and nothing,not blood, not genetics, not anything, will ever change that."

Emma seemed to accept this, at least for now. She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around my neck in a tight hug that made tears spring to my eyes.

"I love you, Mom," she whispered.

"I love you too, my beautiful girl," I whispered back, my voice thick with emotion. "More than you will ever know."

When she finally pulled away, she glanced back at the photo album. "Can we look at my baby pictures? The ones from when you first got me?"

"Of course," I said, grateful for her resilience, for her ability to process this life-altering information and still want to connect with her story. "And I can tell you all about the day we brought you home. It was the happiest day of our lives."

We spent the next hour looking through photographs, me narrating each one with stories she'd heard before but was now understanding in a new light. The day we decorated her nursery. The first time she smiled at us. Her first Christmas. Every milestone preserved in these albums, a testament to our family's journey.

Eventually, Emma's curiosity seemed satisfied for the moment, and she asked if she could go call Zoe about the science project. I helped her put away the albums, tucking them back into the closet but leaving them more accessible than before. This wouldn't be the end of her questions, I knew. This was just the beginning.

After she bounded downstairs to the phone, I sat on the edge of the bed, suddenly drained. I should call Robert, I thought. He needed to know about this conversation, to be prepared for Emma's questions when he returned tomorrow.

But first, I allowed myself a moment to feel. The tears came silently at first, then in shuddering sobs that I muffled with a pillow. Not tears of sadness, exactly, but of release, the tension of a secret finally shared, the fear of how Emma might react, the realization that someday, we would need to tell her everything. 

But not today. Today, we had taken the first step. Today, Emma knew she was chosen, wanted, loved beyond measure.

Tomorrow would bring more questions, more challenges. And when the time came to reveal the whole truth, I would be there for her, helping her navigate the complicated emotions, the sense of loss and discovery, the questions without easy answers.

For now, I wiped my tears and reached for the phone, dialing Robert's number. My finger hovered over the call button as I heard Emma laughing downstairs, her voice bright and clear as she chatted with Zoe.

She was still the same Emma, our Emma, even with this new piece of her identity taking shape. And whatever came next, we would face it together, as a family bound not by blood but by something far stronger: choice. The choice her birth parents made to give her life. The choice Robert and I made to give her our name and our home. And someday, the choices Emma herself would make about her own identity and future.

I pressed call, ready to share with Robert both the weight and the wonder of this day, grateful for the rain that continued to fall softly outside, washing the world clean, and making way for new growth in its wake.