On Thanksgiving, my husband pushed our daughter and me into a pitch-black pantry, begging us not to make a sound while his sister wandered the halls crying out for Lily as “my daughter,” and that was when I knew something was terribly off; what we learned afterward remains unforgettable.
Chapter 1: The Snowstorm and the Perfect Turkey
Snow began falling early in the morning, blanketing the ancient pine trees surrounding the Blackwood Estate in a blanket of white. This was the first Thanksgiving I, Clara, had celebrated at my in-laws’ house since marrying Mark six years ago. Previously, we had always used the excuse of being busy in the city to avoid family gatherings, but this year, Mark said it was time for Lily – our five-year-old daughter – to learn about her roots.
Mark’s parents, Thomas and Evelyn, were members of the Old Money class. They greeted us with polite but distant smiles. The large, old house, with its long, winding corridors and portraits of ancestors looking down, felt cold and desolate.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Evelyn said as she poured tea in the living room, her hand trembling slightly but her voice firm. “Mark’s Aunt Sarah… she’s going through a tough time. She won’t be joining us for dinner. She’s resting in the West Wing.”
Sarah. I’d never met her. Mark said his sister had suffered from schizophrenia since childhood, always living in a fantasy world and easily agitated.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” Mark took my hand, squeezing it unusually tightly. “We’ll keep Lily out of there.”
The Thanksgiving dinner was lavish. A golden turkey, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes… everything was perfect. But the atmosphere was tense. Mr. Thomas kept checking his watch. Mrs. Evelyn jumped at the slightest gust of wind through the window.
Lily, with her golden hair and big blue eyes, sat quietly eating sweet corn. She was the only bright spot in this gloomy dining room.
“I’m full,” Lily said. “Can I go to the bathroom, Mom?”
“Let me take her,” Mark jumped up, so quickly that he knocked over his glass of wine. The red wine stained the pristine white tablecloth like blood.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, wiping his face with a napkin.
“Nothing. I just… I don’t want her to get lost in a strange house,” Mark forced a smile.
He led Lily out into the hallway. I watched, feeling a vague unease creeping into my heart. Why was Mark so tense? Why did Mr. Thomas secretly lock the dining room door the moment Mark left?
Five minutes later, Mark returned, but Lily wasn’t there. His face was ashen.
“Where’s Lily?” I stood up.
“She’s playing in the library,” Mark lied. I knew he was lying because his lips were trembling.
Suddenly, the lights in the house went out. Only the firelight from the fireplace cast ghostly shadows on the walls.
From upstairs, a bloodcurdling scream rang out. Not a scream of fear. But the howl of a wounded animal, echoing through the marble hallway.
“GIVE IT BACK TO ME!!!”
Chapter 2: The Storage Room
Mark lunged at me, gripping my wrist painfully.
“Go! Now!” he hissed.
“What? Where’s Lily?” I struggled.
“She’s safe. We have to hide!”
Mark pulled me out of the dining room, across the dark hallway. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed from the main staircase. Someone was running down.
Mark pushed me into a small room hidden under the side staircase – a dilapidated storage room reeking of dampness and decaying wood. He pulled me inside, where Lily sat huddled behind old cardboard boxes, her eyes wide with fear.
“Shhh!” Mark covered my mouth, then turned to Lily, placing a finger to his lips. He locked the door, his back pressed against the wooden door, breathing heavily.
“Mark, what the hell is going on?” I whispered, removing his hand. “That’s Sarah, isn’t it?”
Mark didn’t answer. He slid down to the floor, drenched in sweat despite the cold.
“Please, Clara,” he pleaded, his voice breaking. “Don’t make a sound. If she finds us… I don’t know what she’ll do.”
Outside, footsteps were approaching. Barefoot footsteps pounded on the wooden floor… thud… thud… thud…
And then, that voice spoke. It wasn’t a scream anymore. It had changed to a sweet, gentle tone, a kind of chilling lullaby.
“Lily… my darling daughter… where are you hiding?”
I froze. She called Lily “daughter.”
“Mom knew you were here. Grandma hid you so well. But I can smell you. The smell of milk and apples…”
Footsteps stopped right outside the storage room door. I held my breath. Lily buried her face in my chest, trembling. Mark squeezed his eyes shut, his hands covering his ears like a child fleeing reality.
The doorknob turned slightly. Click… click… The door was locked.
There was silence outside for a moment. Then a giggle rang out.
“Mark… my dear brother… I knew you were in there. You stole my things again. You always do. You took my dolls, you took my childhood… and now you’ve taken my daughter too.”
My heart stopped. Those words didn’t sound like a madwoman’s ramblings. They had logic. They had a specific hatred.
“Mark,” I whispered in my husband’s ear. “Why would she say that? Why would she think Lily is her daughter?”
Mark opened his eyes. In the dim light, I could see his intelligent eyes.
It contained the fear of a victim. It contained guilt.
“She’s crazy, Clara,” Mark whispered, but his voice was unconvincing. “She had a miscarriage… years ago. She’s obsessed. She thinks every child is hers.”
“Liar!” Sarah yelled from outside, as if she’d heard Mark’s thoughts. She pounded on the door. “You liar, Mark! I saw the file! I found it in Dad’s safe! Open the door!”
The pounding grew more and more violent. The old wooden door began to shake.
Chapter 3: Secrets in the Darkness
While Sarah was frantically pounding on the door, my hand accidentally brushed against a shelf behind me. A metal box fell, its lid snapping open.
Mark jumped, about to grab the box, but I was faster. I turned on my phone’s flashlight (the weakest light possible).
Inside the box weren’t old Christmas decorations. It was medical records. Lots of medical records. And on top was a file with the logo of the New Hope Fertility Clinic – where we had our in-vitro fertilization (IVF) to conceive Lily.
I remembered six years ago. I was diagnosed with infertility due to polycystic ovary syndrome. Mark offered to use donated eggs. He said he found an “anonymous donor” with excellent genes, intelligent and healthy. I agreed because I longed to be a mother.
I opened the file. Donor’s name: Sarah Blackwood. Date of egg retrieval: The same day Sarah was supposedly “admitted for psychological treatment” six years ago.
My hands trembled so much I almost dropped my phone. I turned to the next page. A consent form signed by Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Evelyn. Content: “Agree to the procedure of egg retrieval from patient Sarah Blackwood during electroshock therapy. The eggs will be fertilized with Mark Blackwood’s sperm to create an embryo for the surrogate mother (me).”
I looked at Mark. The light from the phone illuminated his pale face. He hadn’t found a donor. He and his parents had stolen his own sister’s eggs.
“Mark…” I exclaimed, a wave of nausea rising in my throat. “You… what have you done? Lily… Lily is Sarah’s biological child?”
Mark burst into tears. He crawled towards me, grabbing my legs. “I’m sorry! I had no choice! My parents… they want pure blood! They don’t want me to adopt or use eggs from an outsider. They say Sarah is sick, she doesn’t deserve to be a mother, but her genes… her genes are Blackwood’s.”
“And you agreed?” I hissed. “You drugged your sister, stole her eggs, and lied to your wife for six years?”
“She’s crazy, Clara! You wouldn’t understand!” Mark weakly defended himself. “If she raised the child, the baby would be in danger. We gave Lily a good life!”
“A good life?”
Sarah’s voice was no longer outside the door. It came from above our heads.
I looked up. This storage room had a small ventilation window connecting to the second-floor hallway. Sarah was peering down through the gap. One eye was wide open, bloodshot, filled with a terrifying alertness.
“You call kidnapping my child and locking me in the tranquilizer cellar for five years a good life, brother?”
Chapter 4: The Bloody Confrontation
The storage room door was flung open. Not by Sarah. But by Mr. Thomas. He was holding a double-barreled shotgun. Evelyn stood behind me, holding a large flashlight.
“Get out,” Thomas ordered, pointing his gun at us. “Immediately.”
We were dragged out into the hall. Sarah was standing at the bottom of the stairs, a gleaming kitchen knife in her hand. She was wearing a pristine white nightgown, stained with dirt and… blood? No, it was red paint. She had painted over the portraits of her ancestors.
“Sarah, put the knife down,” Evelyn said, her voice trembling but trying to sound authoritative. “You’re having a seizure. Go back to your room, the nurse will give you an injection.”
“No seizure, Mother,” Sarah laughed, a mournful laugh. She pointed the knife at Lily, who was clinging to me. “She has your eyes. Your nose. And that heart-shaped birthmark on the back of her neck… right?”
I instinctively covered Lily’s neck. She did have that birthmark.
“My parents said she died at birth,” Sarah cried, tears streaming down her gaunt face. “They said I got pregnant out of wedlock with the gardener, and the baby died prematurely. But the truth is, they forced me to be a genetic ‘vessel’ for their precious, infertile son!”
“Mark isn’t infertile!” Evelyn shouted.
“Oh, you’re still hiding it?” Sarah scoffed. “Mark got mumps at 12, have you forgotten? His sperm is rubbish. This baby… Lily… she was created from my egg and donated sperm from the sperm bank, right, Mark?”
I turned to look at Mark. He hung his head. So… Lily has absolutely no blood relation to Mark. She’s 100% Sarah’s biological child, genetically, from her mother’s side, and some stranger’s. Mark and I… we’re just child kidnappers.
This horrifying truth shocked me more than having a gun pointed at my head. I had raised and loved a child whose birth was the result of a crime.
Disgusting, a blatant violation of human rights against Sarah.
“Enough!” Mr. Thomas cocked his gun. Click. “I’ve been too merciful to you, Sarah. I should have sent you to a mental asylum five years ago. Bring Lily here, Clara. We’ll settle this internally.”
“Internally?” I stood in front of Lily. “What are you going to do? Kill Sarah? Then kill me to cover your tracks?”
“If necessary,” Mr. Thomas said coldly. “The honor of the Blackwood family is more important than the lives of a few women.”
He pointed the gun at Sarah.
“Are you going to shoot me?” Sarah spread her arms wide. “Shoot me. I’ll be dead the day you and Mom took my child.”
“DON’T!” I screamed.
But Mark, the coward Mark, suddenly lunged forward. Not to save his sister. But to snatch the gun from his father’s hand.
“Dad’s crazy! Clara’ll call the police! We can’t kill anyone!” Mark struggled with Mr. Thomas.
BANG!
A gunshot rang out. The bullet missed Sarah and lodged itself in the enormous crystal chandelier on the ceiling. The chandelier, weighing tons, fell.
CRASH!
Mrs. Evelyn, standing directly beneath the chandelier, didn’t have time to scream. She was buried under the glass and metal.
Mr. Thomas was hit by flying debris and fell to the floor, unconscious.
Chapter 5: A Mother’s Choice
The room was shrouded in dust and a deathly silence. Mark, wounded in the shoulder, lay groaning.
Only I, Lily, and Sarah remained standing.
Sarah stepped through the rubble. She walked towards me. The knife in her hand had fallen somewhere. She stopped in front of me. Her eyes were no longer wild. They held a deep, boundless pain, like the ocean.
“Give her to me,” Sarah whispered.
I clutched Lily tightly. My maternal instincts screamed. I’d raised her for five years. I’d stayed up all night when she had a fever. I’d taught her to walk, taught her to talk. She was my daughter.
“Sarah…” I cried. “I’m sorry for what they did to you. But Lily… she doesn’t know you. Please.”
Sarah looked at Lily. Lily looked back at her with eyes that were both frightened and curious. Two pairs of eyes that were identical.
Sarah raised her hand, intending to touch Lily’s cheek. But then she stopped. She looked at her hand, stained with dirt and red paint. Then she looked at me—clean, warm, the one Lily was clinging to.
“She’s afraid of me,” Sarah said, her voice breaking. “She looks at me like I’m a monster.”
“Not a monster,” I said quickly. “Just a stranger.”
“A stranger…” Sarah laughed bitterly. “The biological mother is a stranger. The accomplice is my mother.”
“I don’t know!” I insisted. “I swear I don’t know! If I knew, I would never…”
“What will you do?” Sarah interrupted. “You long for a child. You’ll do anything.”
She took a step back. She looked around the ruined house, at her mother’s body under the lamp, at her unconscious father and her cowardly brother clutching his bloodied shoulder.
“This house is cursed,” Sarah said. “This bloodline is cursed.”
She turned to look at me one last time.
“Take the child away. Go far away. Never let her know she came from this hell. And never let her become like them.”
“You don’t want your child back?” I asked, stunned.
“I’m a madwoman, Clara,” Sarah said, pointing to her head. “They injected too much into me. I can’t raise it. I’ll only harm it. You… you’re a better mother than me.”
Sarah bent down, picked up a dusty teddy bear from the floor—Lily’s bear. She kissed it lightly, then tossed it toward me.
“Go. Before the police arrive. Tell them I did it all. Say I killed her. Let me finish this.”
Chapter 6: The Escape and the Buried Secret
I didn’t hesitate any longer. I grabbed Lily’s hand, stepped through the rubble, and ran to the front door. Our car was still parked there, covered in snow.
As I started the car, I looked back in the rearview mirror. Blackwood Manor was shrouded in darkness. But in the second-floor window, I saw Sarah’s silhouette standing there, watching us.
Then the fire broke out. Sarah had set the house on fire. She burned the past, burned the medical records, burned the Blackwood family’s crimes.
I drove like crazy through the snowstorm. I didn’t go back to the city. I drove straight to the Canadian border.
Ten years later.
Lily and I are living in Vancouver under new names. Mark is in jail for complicity in illegal medical practices (though he blames his deceased parents). Thomas survived but is paralyzed and has amnesia after the crash, languishing in a nursing home.
Sarah died in the fire that night. The police concluded it was an accident caused by an electrical short circuit, or by his mentally ill daughter.
Lily is now 15 years old. She’s intelligent, sensitive, and has a brilliant talent for painting – just like Sarah.
Today is Lily’s birthday. I gave her a gift box. Inside was a half-burned diary. That was the only thing I managed to grab in the storage room that night, something that had fallen out of a metal box. Sarah’s diary, written during the days she was locked up.
Lily opened it and read. The scribbled words were full of love and pain for the child she had never met.
“Mom,” Lily looked up, her eyes filled with tears. “You
“This woman… she loved you so much, didn’t she?”
“Yes,” I hugged her, looking out the window at the falling snow. “She loved you more than her own life. She was your mother. And I… I was just the person she entrusted to protect you.”
I kept my promise to Sarah. I took Lily far away. And most importantly, I told her the truth. Because Sarah deserved to be remembered not as a madwoman, but as a mother who sacrificed everything—including her motherhood—so her child could have a normal life.
And every Thanksgiving, we didn’t eat turkey. We lit a white candle, placed it beside the portrait of Sarah that Lily had drawn from her imagination, and whispered, “Thank you, Mom.”
A Young Man Loses a Job Opportunity for Helping an Elderly Woman… without knowing that SHE WAS the CEO’s Mother…
The October rain in New York wasn’t romantic like in a Woody Allen movie. It was cold, biting, and carried the metallic smell of old subway tracks.
Ethan Hunt, 26, clutched his worn leather briefcase – the only memento his father had left him. Inside were the architectural designs he’d spent three long years perfecting. Today was his interview at Sterling & Co., a leading North American architectural firm. It wasn’t just a job. With $80,000 in student debt and an eviction notice plastered on his Queens apartment door this morning, this was his last lifeline.
His watch showed 8:45 a.m. The interview started at 9:00. He was only five blocks from Sterling Tower.
Ethan quickened his pace on the slippery sidewalk. Suddenly, a screeching screech of brakes rang out, followed by a blaring horn.
At the intersection, amidst the chaotic traffic, an old woman stood frozen. She wore a thin, soaking wet woolen coat, clutching a tattered cloth bag. A yellow taxi had just brushed against her, sending her tumbling into a puddle of dark mud.
The taxi driver poked his head out, cursed a few times, and sped away. The New Yorkers continued onward. They were too busy, or too indifferent.
Ethan stopped.
“You don’t have time, Ethan,” a voice in his head screamed. “If you stop, you’re dead. This suit is the only one you own.”
He looked at his watch: 8:48.
He looked at the old woman. She was trembling, trying to pick up the oranges scattered on the road, muttering something in a panic. A delivery truck was speeding towards them, honking loudly but showing no sign of slowing down.
“Damn it!”
Ethan cast aside his hesitation. He dashed into the street, ignoring the splashes of water that were soaking his pants. He gestured for the truck to stop, then bent down to help the old woman up.
“Grandma! Are you alright?” Ethan shouted, his voice hoarse from the rain.
The old woman looked up at him. Her eyes were cloudy and vacant. “Thomas? Is that you, Thomas? I brought you oranges…”
She was confused. Or had Alzheimer’s.
“I’m not Thomas. Let’s go, it’s dangerous!”
Ethan helped her onto the sidewalk. But suddenly, the old woman recoiled, clutching her chest and gasping for breath. She fell into Ethan’s arms. Mud from her clothes stained his pristine white shirt.
Ethan panicked. He couldn’t leave her there. He quickly called 911.
“Please hurry, corner of 5th and 52nd streets!”
While waiting for the ambulance, Ethan looked at his watch: 8:58.
He gazed despairingly at the towering Sterling Tower two blocks away. He had lost.
By the time the paramedics arrived and took the old woman in, it was 9:15. She clutched Ethan’s hand tightly, thrusting a bruised orange into his.
“Take this, Thomas. Don’t go hungry.”
Ethan swallowed, nodding, “Thank you.”
He stood up. His suit was soaking wet, covered in mud and orange juice. But he ran. He ran like a madman toward the Sterling Tower.
Ethan entered the Sterling Tower lobby looking like a homeless man who had just won the lottery but been robbed. The marble floor reflected his pathetic image.
“I… I have an interview at 9 o’clock,” Ethan gasped, speaking to the beautiful but cold, wax-like receptionist.
The woman looked him up and down, a sneering smirk on her face. “It’s 9:25 now, sir. And… my God, look at yourself. This is the Sterling Corporation, not a rescue station.”
“Please. I had an accident on the way. I helped someone in need. Let me see Mr. Henderson. Just five minutes!”
“Mr. Henderson doesn’t deal with unprofessional people. Please leave, or I’ll call security.”
“No!” Ethan slammed his hand on the table. Despair turned into rage. “I’m Cornell’s top-ranked Architect! Look at my blueprints before you kick me out!”
The commotion drew attention. From the VIP elevator, a group of people emerged. Leading them was a middle-aged man in a Bespoke Italian suit, his face as sharp as a razor. It was Marcus Sterling – the legendary CEO, known as the “King of Skyscrapers.”
But today, Marcus didn’t look like a king. He looked anxious, angry, and was shouting into the phone.
“Find him! Can’t you find an old man in all of New York City? Did I pay your security guards just for show?”
Marcus walked past the reception desk, glancing at the commotion. He stopped.
“What’s going on here?” Marcus’s voice was deep and authoritative.
The receptionist quickly stood up, pointing at Ethan. “Mr. Sterling, this young man is 30 minutes late for his interview, he’s disheveled and causing a disturbance. I’m calling security.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes at Ethan. He looked at the mud on his shirt, at his rain-soaked hair.
“You’re late?” Marcus asked, his voice cold.
“Yes, sir,” Ethan straightened his back, though his legs were trembling. “I had an accident on the way…”
“At Sterling, we don’t accept excuses,” Marcus interrupted. “Time is money. If you can’t manage your time, you can’t manage my billion-dollar projects. Get him out of here.”
Marcus waved his hand and turned his back, continuing to yell into the phone.
Ethan stammered, “My mother didn’t bring her phone! She’s only wearing a thin sweater! If anything happens to her…”
Two burly security guards swooped in, grabbing Ethan’s arms.
“Come on, kid,” one of them growled.
Ethan struggled. He refused to give up. He’d lost everything for an act of kindness. And now, that kindness was being treated like trash.
During the struggle, Ethan’s vest pocket ripped open. The bruised orange the old woman had given him fell onto the marble floor, rolling to Marcus Sterling’s feet.
Marcus froze.
He looked at the orange. An ordinary, bruised orange. But on its peel was a funny smiley face sticker – the kind children play with.
Marcus slowly bent down to pick up the orange. His hands, usually steady when signing billion-dollar deals, were now trembling.
“Stop,” Marcus whispered.
Then he spun around, shouting, “I SAID STOP!”
The bodyguards released Ethan. The hall fell silent.
Marcus strode toward Ethan, grabbing his stained collar. His eyes blazed, but not with anger, but with utter panic.
“Where did you get this?” Marcus thrust the orange in Ethan’s face. “Tell me! What did you do to her?”
Ethan was stunned. “What? I didn’t do anything! The old woman gave it to me!”
“Which old woman? Where?”
“At the corner of 5th Street! She fell! I helped her up and called an ambulance! She’s confused, she kept calling me Thomas and gave me this orange, telling me not to go hungry!”
Marcus released Ethan, stepping back, his face drained of color.
“Thomas…” Marcus whispered, his voice breaking. “That’s my younger brother’s name… He died of starvation at age 10… during a harsh winter before we became wealthy.”
“Mr. Sterling!” An assistant rushed in, phone in hand. “Mount Sinai Hospital just called! They’ve taken in an unidentified elderly woman brought in from the corner of Fifth Street. She’s being warmed up and keeps asking to see ‘the boy in the muddy suit’.”
Marcus snatched the phone, listened for a few seconds, then let it drop.
He looked at Ethan. This time, the “King of Skyscrapers’” gaze was no longer arrogant. It was raw, full of remorse and gratitude.
Marcus’s mother, Eleanor Sterling, suffered from severe Alzheimer’s. This morning, she had escaped from her heavily guarded penthouse, hallucinating that her deceased young son was starving on the streets. She had escaped just to bring “Thomas” an orange.
If Ethan hadn’t stopped. If Ethan had chosen to arrive on time for the interview. Eleanor might have been run over by a truck or frozen to death in the New York rain.
Marcus took a deep breath, adjusting Ethan’s tie—an action that left the receptionist and bodyguards gaping.
“What’s your name?” Marcus asked.
“Ethan… Ethan Hunt.”
“Ethan,” Marcus said, his voice calm again. “You failed the interview for the Architect Trainee position.”
Ethan’s heart tightened. He bowed his head. Of course. Rules are rules.
“But,” Marcus continued, turning to the stunned staff. “You don’t need that position. I just fired the Head of Creative Design because he was too insensitive to designs for people with disabilities.”
Marcus placed his hand on Ethan’s shoulder.
“A good architect is someone who knows how to design beautiful buildings. But a great architect is someone who knows how to see the people inside those concrete blocks. You saw my mother when the whole world ignored her.”
“You’re hired. Not as an intern. You’ll be my personal Design Assistant on the Sterling Nursing Home project we’re about to start. Starting salary $150,000.”
Ethan stood speechless. Everything was happening so fast.
“Let’s go,” Marcus patted his shoulder. “My car’s waiting outside. We’re going to the hospital. My mother wants to see her ‘Thomas’. And then… I’ll buy you a new suit.”
Ethan followed Marcus out of the building. The rain outside hadn’t stopped, but the air wasn’t cold anymore.
In his torn jacket pocket, the scent of oranges still lingered. It wasn’t the smell of failure. It was the scent of humanity, the only thing more valuable than pure gold in the heart of glamorous New York.
