My Little Star

Gracie didn’t believe in fate.

But something about this room felt designed for her.

She sat on the edge of the leather couch; fingers knotted tightly in her lap. A wall of books loomed behind the therapist’s chair — psychology texts, trauma studies and a few novels with cracked spines. Everything about the space was curated to feel safe. Neutral. Controlled.

Dr. Evelyn Hart watched her with a calm, unreadable expression. Her pen hovered above a yellow legal pad, but she hadn’t written anything yet.

There was a scent in the room Gracie couldn’t place — faint, floral, and oddly familiar. Not the lavender from the diffuser or the chamomile in her tea. Something older. Like the perfume from a memory she didn’t know she had.

“I’ve been looking into my adoption,” Gracie said, her voice low. “I didn’t tell my parents. I didn’t want to hurt them.”

Evelyn nodded slowly. “Secrets have a way of surfacing, whether we want them to or not.”

“I just… I need to know who she was. My birth mother. Why she gave me up. What she was like.”

Evelyn’s gaze lingered on her face. “Have you found anything?”

“Just a name. No photo, no history. It’s like she vanished.”

“Some people vanish on purpose,” Evelyn said, her voice soft but oddly precise. “To protect something. Or someone.”

Gracie looked down at her hands. “I keep wondering if she ever thought about me. If she ever regretted it.”

“She might have,” Evelyn said. “Regret leaves fingerprints. Even when the person is long gone.”

Gracie glanced up. “You said you’ve worked with adoptees before. Have any of them found their birth parents?”

Evelyn paused. “One. Years ago.”

“What happened?”

“She found her mother,” Evelyn said. “But the truth wasn’t what she expected.”

Gracie swallowed. “I don’t care if it’s messy. I just want to know who I am.”

Evelyn leaned forward slightly, her voice low and deliberate. “Then let’s find her. Together.”

Gracie left the office that day with Evelyn’s words echoing in her mind: Then let’s find her. Together.

It sounded like comfort, but something in Evelyn’s tone had unsettled her — too calm, too rehearsed. As if she’d said it before. As if she’d been waiting to.

Evelyn had handed her a book on trauma recovery as she walked out, saying it might help her “understand the architecture of memory.” Gracie hadn’t opened it until a week later, sitting in the waiting room.

The book was dense, clinical. But something about it felt personal. Like Evelyn hadn’t just recommended it — she’d chosen it for a reason.

She turned a page, and a small yellow sticky note fluttered out, landing on her lap.

It was folded in half, the edges worn. Gracie opened it slowly.

You are stronger than you know. Keep going.

The handwriting was elegant, looping — familiar.

Her pulse quickened.

She dug into her bag, pulling out the folder she’d been keeping since she started searching for her birth mother. Inside was a birthday card she’d found tucked into the back of her adoption file. No signature. Just a message:

Happy first birthday, my little star. I’ll always be watching.

Same loops. Same slant. Same ink.

Gracie’s throat tightened.

She looked up at the closed office door. Evelyn was inside, finishing with another client.

Gracie tucked the sticky note into her journal just as Evelyn opened the door.

“Come in,” Evelyn said, her voice warm.

She stepped inside. Evelyn gestured to the couch. “Did you get a chance to look through the book?”

Gracie nodded, sitting down slowly. “I did.”

“It was… interesting,” she said. “Especially the parts about memory. How the body stores things even when the mind forgets.”

Evelyn smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “That’s one of my favorite chapters.”

Gracie studied her. “Have you ever had a patient who remembered something they weren’t supposed to?”

Evelyn tilted her head. “What do you mean?”

“Like… something they couldn’t have known. Something from before they could form memories.”

Evelyn’s pen hovered over her pad. “That’s rare. But not impossible.”

Gracie hesitated. “I found something in the book. A note.”

Evelyn’s hand paused mid-motion. “A note?”

Gracie nodded. “It looked familiar. The handwriting.”

Evelyn didn’t blink. “Maybe it was mine. I leave notes sometimes.”

Gracie leaned forward. “Did you write my little star?” Evelyn’s expression didn’t change — but her silence did.

Gracie felt the air shift.

“I think you know more than you’re telling me.” She said quietly.

Evelyn set her pen down. “Gracie… some truths take time.”

Gracie’s voice was steady now. “I don’t want time. I want answers.”

She sat across from Evelyn, notebook balanced on her knee, but she hadn’t written a word.

Evelyn was speaking — something about attachment theory and how early separation could shape identity — but Gracie wasn’t listening to the way she used to.

She was watching.

Evelyn’s gestures were always measured, her tone always soothing. But today, Gracie noticed the way her fingers tapped the armrest when she paused. The way her eyes flicked to the desk drawer when Gracie mentioned her adoption file.

It was subtle. Almost nothing. But it was there.

“I’ve been thinking about that note,” Gracie said suddenly.

Evelyn looked up, her expression neutral. “The one in the book?”

Gracie nodded. “It reminded me of something I found in my adoption papers. A birthday card. Same handwriting.”

Evelyn didn’t blink. “That’s interesting.”

Gracie leaned forward. “Do you remember writing it?”

Evelyn smiled, but it was tight. “I write a lot of notes, Gracie. It’s possible.” Possible. Not no. Not yes. Just… evasive.

She glanced at the photo on Evelyn’s desk — the child with dark curls and a crooked smile. She’d seen it before, but now she couldn’t stop wondering: Was that her?

Evelyn followed her gaze. “That’s my niece,” she said, too quickly.

Gracie nodded, but her mind was racing. The resemblance was uncanny. The timing didn’t add up.

She looked back at Evelyn, who was now scribbling something on her pad. Gracie couldn’t see the words, but she could feel them — cold, clinical, detached.

The room felt smaller than usual. The air heavier.

She didn’t know what she was looking for yet. But she was starting to see the cracks.

Gracie didn’t know what she wanted more — answers or peace.

Every session with Evelyn pulled her in two directions. On one hand, she felt seen in ways she never had before. Evelyn understood her silences, her spirals, the weight she carried without ever needing to explain it. That kind of understanding felt sacred. Healing.

But then there were the moments that didn’t make sense. The handwriting. The photo. The scent. The way Evelyn sometimes spoke like she already knew her — not as a patient, but as something else.

Gracie had spent her whole life wondering why she was given away. Why someone could carry her for nine months and then let her go. She told herself it was for the best. That her adoptive parents loved her. That she was lucky.

But now, sitting across from Evelyn, she felt the ground shifting beneath her. What if the story she’d been told wasn’t the truth? What if the person helping her heal was the one who had broken her in the first place?

She wanted to trust Evelyn. She needed to.

But trust was a fragile thing — and once it cracked, everything else did too.

Gracie wasn’t sure if she was unraveling or waking up.

She waited until Evelyn stepped out to grab a printout from the front desk. It was only a minute — maybe less — but it was enough.

Gracie moved quickly to the desk, heart pounding. The drawer that had always been locked was slightly ajar.

Inside, a single folder. No name. Just a letter: G.

She opened it.

Typed notes. Cold, clinical language.

Subject G selected for longitudinal study on maternal separation and identity development. Adoption arranged through private channels. Subject placed with non-biological guardians at six weeks. Researcher retained therapeutic access under pseudonym.

Gracie’s breath caught.

Therapeutic bond established under controlled conditions. Subject unaware of biological link to researcher. Emotional responses monitored across developmental stages.

She flipped to the last page. A photo — a baby wrapped in a yellow blanket. On the back, in looping handwriting:

My little star.

Gracie dropped the folder, her pulse roaring in her ears.

She wasn’t just a patient.

She wasn’t just a daughter.

She was a subject.

The door creaked open behind her.

Evelyn stood in the doorway, calm as ever. “You weren’t supposed to see that yet.”

Gracie turned slowly, her voice hollow. “You gave me away… for a study?”

Evelyn stepped forward. “I gave you a life. And now I’m giving you the truth.”

Gracie backed away, the room spinning. The scent — that strange, familiar perfume — clung to the air like a memory she wished she could forget.

In the end, Gracie wasn’t a daughter.

She was a hypothesis — tested, measured, and catalogued.

She was never meant to be held.

Only studied.

And now, the experiment was complete.