Every time school was over, Mary walked home with her two best friends – Anna and Lucy – along the road that ran through the old town on the edge of town. The road was lined with brown brick houses, rusty iron fences and cobwebbed windows. And every afternoon, as they passed number 37 – the dilapidated house with the torn curtains – the crazy woman appeared.

She was in her fifties, her hair disheveled, wrapped in a faded grey sweater, her eyes dark but bright, staring at Mary. At first, the children were just scared. But then, she began to speak.

“Mary… my daughter. It’s me.”

The first time Mary heard it, she was stunned. Her two friends burst out laughing, teasing:

“Watch out, your real mother is coming to pick you up, Mary!”

Mary blushed, pulled her friend away, but her heart was pounding.

From that day on, every time she passed by, the woman called out to her:

“Mary, don’t you remember me? You used to like the pink doll I gave you.”

The words left Mary speechless. When she was four years old, there really was a pink doll – her favorite toy, but no one knew about it except her mother and adoptive father.

That night, Mary lay in bed, tossing and turning. She was adopted, adopted from an orphanage at the age of four. Her parents had never hidden it, but they had never told her the details of her biological parents.

“Your biological parents died in a fire,” her adoptive mother had said, her voice full of regret. “You were saved when you were young.”

Mary had believed that for the past ten years. Until that crazy woman appeared.

A week later, Mary decided to stop in front of house number 37.

“Who are you? Why do you keep saying I’m your daughter?”

The woman trembled, tears streaming down her face.

“Because you are my daughter! People say I am crazy, but I am not crazy, Mary. That year, someone took you away from me, saying you died in the fire… But I still searched for you for ten years!”

Mary stepped back. Her voice trembled, hoarse:

“There is a small crescent-shaped scar on your right shoulder, right?”

She stood there, frozen. She had never told anyone about that scar. No one knew – except her.

When she got home, Mary told her foster parents.
Her foster father – Mr. David – put down his glass of water, his voice deep:

“You shouldn’t listen to a sick person. That person has lived in that area for a long time, has mental problems. You are not allowed to go near him again, understand?”

Her foster mother hugged her shoulder, her eyes trembling slightly.

“Just know, we love you. Don’t let anyone make you doubt that.”

But as Mary turned away, she caught sight of her foster mother sneaking a worried glance at her father.

A few days later, Mary sneaked back to number 37. The old wooden door was ajar, and a musty smell wafted in. Inside, the house was filled with scribbles, most of them depicting a little girl with brown hair, big eyes, holding a pink doll – that was her.

“Mom kept all your pictures.”
She shakily opened a drawer and took out an old tin box. Inside was a picture of Mary as a child – chubby face, yellow dress, bright smile.

Mary trembled:

“But… how did you get a picture of me?”

She sobbed:

“I gave birth to you at St. Anne’s Hospital. When you were four, our house burned down. People said you died, but I didn’t believe it. I looked everywhere at the orphanages, hospitals… and then one day, I saw your picture in the newspaper, in the ‘Adoption Families’ section. I knew it was you. But no one believed me. They locked me up in a mental hospital.”

Mary choked. Everything she said matched what her adoptive parents had said – but in a different way.

That evening, Mary looked up the adoption papers. In the file, her parents adopted her from St. Anne’s Hospital, the same day the fire she mentioned happened.
The “birth parent information” was blurred – there was an erasure.

Mary’s heart was pounding.
She took out her phone and looked up St. Anne Fire Accident 10 years ago. A series of articles appeared. One article was titled: “Mother Missing After Fire, Suspected Arsonist.” The photo in the article was of the crazy woman at number 37. Her name was Evelyn Carter.

Mary couldn’t sleep all night. The next morning, she went to the hospital where her adoptive father worked – he was the head surgeon. While he was in a meeting, she sneaked into the records room.

In the drawer marked “adoption records,” she found her file. On the last page, a handwritten note read:

“Child handed over by rescue worker David M. – blood relationship not confirmed.”

David M. – that was her adoptive father’s name.

Mary was stunned. She understood that it was he who had pulled her out of the rubble of the fire that year. But what right did he have to keep her?

That afternoon, she returned to number 37. But the door was locked, and it was strangely quiet inside. A neighbor said Evelyn had been taken away by ambulance this morning – “she was having a fit, screaming in the street.”

Mary went to the town mental hospital. In the cold white room, Evelyn sat still, her eyes empty. When she saw Mary, she smiled weakly:

“I knew you would come. They say I’m crazy again. But I have proof.”

She pulled a piece of burned paper from her pocket – a birth certificate. It read: Mary Carter – child of Evelyn Carter and David Moore.

Mary was stunned.

David Moore – full name of her adoptive father

i cô.

That night, when Mary returned home, her father was sitting in the living room, the dim yellow light shining on his tired face.

“Did you go to see her?”
His voice was low and cold.

Mary clenched the paper in her hand.

“Is it true? Did Evelyn’s mother tell the truth?”

He was silent for a long time, then sighed:

“That year, your mother – Evelyn – suffered from postpartum depression. She set fire to the house. When I got there, I found you passed out in the smoke, and she had disappeared. I… I couldn’t let you go to the orphanage. I wanted you to have a normal life.”

Mary screamed:

“You took me away from my biological mother! You lied to me for ten years!”

His tears fell.

“I just want you to be safe. Evelyn… is no longer herself.”

Mary rushed out of the house in the rain.

Two days later, Mary received an urgent call from the mental hospital. Evelyn died.

When Mary arrived, she was lying quietly under a white blanket, her face serene. In her hand was a letter, addressed “To Mary”.

“My daughter,
If you are reading this letter, it means I no longer have the chance to tell you the truth.
That year, I was not crazy. The house fire was not caused by me. Your father – David – caused it. He wanted to take you away, because you were not his biological child. You were the result of my previous love.
He burned the house to erase all traces. I tried to save you but was seriously injured and passed out. When I woke up, you were gone.
I searched for you for ten years, and now, I can rest in peace knowing you are still alive.”

Mary collapsed, trembling, holding the letter soaked with tears.

A week later, the police arrested David Moore after reinvestigating the fire. The traces matched Evelyn’s words – gasoline stains in the house, lighter marks near the stairs. Everything was hidden thanks to his connections in the hospital that year.

As for Mary, she moved back to number 37, her biological mother’s old house. On the wall, there were still scribbles – a brown-haired girl smiling brightly, holding a pink doll.

She took the doll out of the box – inside was an old photo: Evelyn holding her in her arms, next to a strange man – not David. In the corner of the photo was a faint line:

“The Carter family, 2010.”

Mary smiled softly through her tears.

“Mom, I miss you.”

She hung the photo on the wall, the afternoon sunlight shone through the window, illuminating her face – exactly the same as the face in the picture from years ago.

And on the street, people still occasionally say that, every evening, passing by house number 37, if you listen carefully, you will hear a woman’s voice softly calling:

“Mary… my daughter…”

But this time, Mary was no longer afraid.

She smiled, softly responding in the wind:

“I’m here, mother.”

The story ends, leaving a choking aftertaste:

Not all crazy people are insane — there are those who are simply forgotten by the world, while they still remember each child with all their soul.