The last confession

The Last Confession

“What do you mean it was a mistake, Majory? We both agreed this was how it was going to be! How can you be sorry at this particular time? What will you do to fix the mess you caused? We all trusted you, Majory. You were like family, and you willingly agreed to help Dean and me!” My mother’s voice trembled with a mix of anger and desperation.

Majory lay in the hospital bed, pale and frail, her chest rising and falling with labored breaths. The woman who had once been my best friend, my sister, had finally come back after years of vanishing. She had nowhere else to go, and we were the only family she had.

Majory and I had grown up together. When her parents died in a car accident, my mother—who had been close friends with them—took her in. We became inseparable. Same schools, same clothes, same dreams. People often mistook us for twins. But things began to change in college. The petty arguments started over little things, and though we always patched things up, something shifted on my 18th birthday. She had hidden the dress I was so excited to wear for my celebration. I found it later, crumpled and stained, in a corner of the dorm room.

Even then, my mother insisted we forgive and move forward. “Family fights,” she’d say. “But family also forgives.”

Majory was even my maid of honor at my wedding. For all our differences, I believed we’d made it through the rough patches. When Dean and I decided to have a child but couldn’t conceive naturally, Majory saw my heartbreak. She offered to be our surrogate without hesitation. I remember sobbing in her arms, overwhelmed by gratitude.

When Stacy was born, my world was whole again. We let Majory visit her often, bond with her. After all, Majory had carried her, and we wanted her to feel included. But things started to change. She wanted more time with Stacy—weekends, unsupervised visits—and when I pushed back, the fights began again. The visits stopped. Majory stopped.

Then, on a sunny Sunday, May 17th, my life shattered. I’d left Stacy sleeping in the house to quickly run to the shop. When I returned, she was gone. My baby was gone. For six agonizing years, Dean and I searched, never giving up hope. Each day felt heavier than the last. Every night I dreamt of her tiny hands, her laugh, her face. Was she safe? Was she alive?

Now, Majory was back. And she was dying.

“Hey, Emily, where’s your concentration? Majory is talking, and your mind is somewhere else,” my mother snapped, bringing me back to the hospital room.

“Sorry, Mum,” I whispered, my voice raw. “Majory, what were you saying?”

Tears rolled down Majory’s cheeks. Her voice, when she spoke, was rough, heavy with regret. “Emily… Dean… please, forgive me. I… I…” Her voice broke, and she struggled to continue.

I was trembling, my patience gone. “What could you possibly have done, Majory? What’s so bad you have to confess it now? What did you do?” My voice cracked as I spoke.

Dean placed a calming hand on my shoulder. “Emily, let her speak. She’s not well. Let’s give her a chance.”

Majory reached for my mother’s hand, gripping it weakly. “Mother, help me. Beg them to forgive me. I don’t know what came over me. I… I…”

Something inside me snapped. My voice rose, trembling with fury and fear. “Majory, just tell me! Did you have something to do with Stacy’s disappearance? Tell me the truth!”

The room fell into silence so thick, I could hear my own heartbeat thundering in my ears. Majory didn’t answer. But her silence—her tears, her averted gaze—was enough.

I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. My legs gave way, and Dean had to hold me up. The walls seemed to close in on me. My mother looked at Majory, stunned, her hand covering her mouth.

I stumbled back to Majory, gripping the edge of her bed. “Majory, look at me! Where is Stacy? Please… tell me where my baby is!”

Majory’s lips trembled as she struggled to speak. “Emily… when I carried Stacy… I thought I could do it. I thought I could let her go. But when I saw her, when I held her, I… I couldn’t. She was mine. She felt like mine.”

My breath hitched.

“On that Sunday,” she continued, her voice breaking, “I was outside your house. I’d been watching you, waiting for the right moment. When you left… I went inside. I took her. I wanted her to be mine. I didn’t think. I was selfish.”

Her breathing grew shallow. “Emily… Dean… I’m sorry. I can’t…” Her voice trailed off, and her eyes fluttered shut.

“Majory!” I screamed, shaking her, but she didn’t respond. My mother rushed out to get the doctor.

As the chaos unfolded, Majory’s hand weakly reached for mine. She pressed a crumpled envelope into my palm. Her lips moved soundlessly. And then she was gone.

The room was silent. My mother stood frozen at the door, the doctor trailing behind her. Dean gripped my arm tightly, pulling me into his chest as I cried.

In my hand, I clutched the envelope. It was addressed to me, and on the back was a single line written in Majory’s shaky handwriting:

“Find her where we first became sisters.”

The days after Majory’s death were a blur. I clutched the envelope everywhere I went, too afraid to open it and too afraid not to.

The address led to our old hometown, the small place where my childhood memories with Majory lived—before the arguments, before the heartbreak, before the betrayal.

Dean and I arrived in the early morning, parking near the old school Majory and I had attended. Hours passed, and desperation began to creep in. Then, at a tiny bakery, an elderly woman froze when she saw Stacy’s photo.

“There’s a girl who looks just like this,” she said.

She directed us to a modest home near the church. The moment I saw it, my legs felt like jelly.

The door opened before we knocked. An older woman stood there, and behind her, a young girl peeked out, her dark curls framing a curious face.

My breath caught. Stacy.

She looked older, taller, but I would have recognized her anywhere. Her wide brown eyes were the same as the ones that had stared back at me six years ago.

“Who are you?” Stacy asked.

Her voice, so small and sweet, shattered my heart.

“I’m… I’m your mother,” I whispered.

She tilted her head, confused. “But Grandma’s my mom.”

Tears streamed down my face. Stacy didn’t know me. She didn’t remember Dean. To her, we were strangers.

Dean knelt beside me, his hand on my back. “Hi, sweetheart,” he said gently. “I’m… I’m your dad.”

Stacy took a step back, clutching the older woman’s hand.

“We’ll give her time,” Dean said quietly. “We’ll be patient. We’ll do whatever it takes.”

For the first time in years, I felt a fragile thread of hope. Stacy was here. She was alive. And somehow, I’d find a way to bring my little girl back home.