"Mommy, you have to be the first person to come pick me up, okay?"

These are my daughter Dorothy Grant's final words to me when she walked me out of the house this morning.

But when I stand at the kindergarten's entrance with a box of Dorothy's favorite strawberry shortcake in my hands, the security guard just stares at me as though I lost my mind.

"Ma'am, this place might be where Sunflower Kindergarten is located, but it has already closed its doors for three years. This place is now a retirement home."

I rush into the "kindergarten" instantly. The spot where the slide used to be is now replaced by a row of flowerbeds. The room that used to be the classroom now hosts a bunch of elderly people, who bask in the sunlight.

With trembling hands, I call my husband, Chester Grant, on the phone. He sounds very exasperated and exhausted over the phone.

"Honey, we've been married for five years, and we choose to be childless. You've never given birth before."

My alarm went off at 2:30 pm sharp, and I shot up from my work desk.

"Ms. Chapman, going to pick up your kid already? It's not even time to clock out yet," Zoey Irvin, the new intern, joked.

As I packed my bag, I replied, "I have to make an exception today. It's Dottie's first time spending her birthday at the kindergarten, and I've promised her I'd be the first to arrive and pick her up with a strawberry shortcake."

I grabbed the cake that I had just bought and felt a wave of regret.

For the past few years, my husband, Chester Grant, and I had been working day and night just to pay off the mortgage. We barely spent any time with our daughter, Dorothy Grant. Thus, I took half a day off today to surprise her.

Sunflower Kindergarten wasn't far from my office, just two turns down the street. I hummed Dorothy's favorite nursery rhyme as I glided to her. However, when I turned the final corner, I froze.

The kindergarten that should've had a rainbow-painted gate was gone. In its place stood a dull black iron door with a sign above it that read "Golden Years Wellness Center".

I rubbed my eyes, assuming I had taken the wrong road. I looked around again, only to see the familiar buildings around—the pasta house across the street and Founders Bank next to it.

Even the air carried that familiar smell of cooking oil from this neighborhood. Everything was the same, except that the kindergarten, once filled with laughter and noise, had vanished without a trace.

My heart dropped. I darted toward the security booth and yelled, "Excuse me, sir! Where's Sunflower Kindergarten? I thought they were still having classes today!"

A security guard in a gray uniform stepped out of the booth and frowned at me. "Kindergarten? Ma'am, this is a senior wellness center. It's been open for three years."

"That's impossible!" I shrieked, gripping the cake so tightly my fingers hurt. "Just at 8:00 am this morning, I walked my daughter through that gate! A teacher in a yellow apron even stood there and greeted us!"

The guard sized me up from head to toe, a look creeping into his eyes as if he were staring at someone unstable. He picked up his walkie-talkie and muttered, "A woman's causing trouble at the entrance. She might not be mentally sound. Send someone over."

A chill crawled up my spine and straight to my scalp. I fished out my phone, my fingers shaking as I dialed Chester. The call connected after just two rings.

"Hello, honey? What's up?" he answered, his voice as gentle as ever, though laced with a hint of lethargy.

"Chester, you need to come over now! The kindergarten is gone! Dottie… Dottie's not here!" I shouted through my sobs, collecting stares from the passersby around me.

Silence dawned on the other end for five whole seconds. I didn't learn how suffocating quietness could be until then.

"Sophie…" Chester grumbled, his voice now cold and bereft of the earlier tenderness. "What are you talking about? What kindergarten? Who's Dottie?"

My hair stood, my tears threatening to run down my face. "What are you saying? Dottie, our daughter—Dorothy Grant!"

A helpless sigh escaped him. "Honey, we've been married for five years. Both of us work and decide not to have children. You've never even given birth."

I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

I had never given birth? Who was that girl this morning who clung to my neck and smelled like milk and honey? What about the scar on my belly, the one I got from giving birth to her?

I frenziedly yanked up my shirt and checked my abdomen. It was smooth and flat, devoid of the pink, ugly scar from my C-section. It disappeared.

I didn't know how I made it home. I only remembered that when Chester drove over to pick me up, my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I had crushed the cake box in my grip. Cream leaked out, sticky and smeared all over my hands.

"You're fine, Sophie. Once we're home, get some sleep, and you'll feel better," he said, steering with one hand and holding mine with the other.

His palm was warm, yet it sent a chill through me. Everything felt wrong, deeply wrong, but I couldn't explain why. My mind was foggy, my thoughts tangled, and I couldn't think straight.

The car rolled into the familiar underground garage and stopped in the parking space we had used for five years. The elevator went up, the numbers increasing along with the rate of my pounding heartbeat.

Chester must've picked Dorothy up without telling me. This had to be a prank. Everything was fine. Dorothy had to be at home.

The elevator chimed, and we arrived on the 12th floor. I unlocked our door and didn't even bother changing my shoes. I ran down the hallway like I had lost my mind, straight for the door at the end.

It should've led to Dorothy's room—pink wallpaper, a small bed piled with stuffed toys, and a desk full of crayon drawings. Chester followed behind me, his tone helpless. "Sophie, that's just the study."

I shoved the door open, and I gasped. There was no pink, no stuffed toys, nor crayon drawings. Instead, what met my eyes were dark-gray bookshelves, a massive rosewood desk, and walls filled with foreign-language books I couldn't even read.

The air held none of that childlike sweetness, just the old smell of paper and a faint trace of sandalwood.

"No, this can't be… This isn't real…"

I dropped to my knees, my hands clawing frantically at the expensive carpet. Just yesterday, Dorothy had been on this carpet, playing with her puzzle. A blue piece of sky had gone missing, and she had cried for ages looking for it.

Now, there was nothing. Shaking, I pulled out my phone and opened my photo gallery.

There were more than 3,000 photos saved, all of which were records of Dorothy growing up—her first time rolling over, her first steps, her first time calling me Mommy, and her first trip to the amusement park…

I tapped on the folder named "My Baby". It was empty, with zero items. Still dubious, I opened Facebook, only to find every post where I had shown Dorothy off, even on nights I worked past midnight, was gone.

What remained were only photos of Chester and me or shots of scenery. Even the captions had changed. What used to say, "Dottie learned how to ride a bike today!" now read, "What a nice day for a stroll in the park."

I broke down screaming. The phone flew from my hand and slammed into the wall, shattering the screen.

"Sophie!"

An anxious voice came from the doorway. I turned and saw my and Chester's parents. I scrambled over on my hands and knees and clutched Mom's leg.

"Mom, tell me the truth! I have a daughter, don't I? Dottie—just last week, you knitted her a sweater! It's red, with a bunny on it!"

Mom's eyes were rimmed red. She crouched down, stroked my hair with her trembling hand, and cried.

"Sophie, please stop… That sweater… You forced me to knit it for a doll. After your miscarriage five years ago, your mental state was never stable. The doctors said you developed delusions. We were afraid of upsetting you, so we went along with it this whole time…"

I froze. Even Mom was lying to me.

"A miscarriage?" I murmured. "That's impossible. I clearly had a C-section…"

I yanked up my shirt and pointed at my smooth, pale belly. "How do you explain this, then? I used to have a scar here."

This time, my mother-in-law spoke. She sighed, her eyes full of pity.

"Sophie, you never carried the pregnancy to term. It was an early miscarriage. These past few years, you've been doing unnecessary scar-removal treatments and skin care nonstop because you thought you had a C-section. Have you really forgotten?"

Everyone was looking at me, some with sympathy, some with pity, and some with helpless resignation. They formed a circle around me, trapping me in the center.

Had I truly lost my mind all this time?

The room began to spin. Darkness rushed in, and I lost consciousness completely.

When I woke up, it was already noon the next day.

Sunlight slanted through the curtains, blinding my eyes. I lay on the big bed in the master bedroom, wrapped in a soft silk comforter. On the nightstand sat a glass of warm water and two white pills.

"You're up."

Chester pushed the door open. He wore an apron and held a bowl of porridge. He was still so handsome—sharp brows, bright eyes, and a straight nose—the same face I had fallen for the first time back in college.

He sat on the edge of the bed and gently blew on the porridge. "The doctor gave you these. They're supposed to help you tell delusions from reality. Here, take the medicine and finish your breakfast."

I stared at him. Inside my head, two voices fought.

One said, "Take it. Maybe you really are sick. Everyone says so, even your parents," while the other screamed, "He's lying! He's lying!"

I opened my mouth obediently, popped the pills in, and drank the water.

He pressed a kiss to my forehead. "That's my girl. I want you to know that whether we have a child or not, I'll always love you, Sophie. If you really want a kid, we can adopt one when you get better."

"Okay," I croaked.

Chester looked pleased. He reminded me to rest, then went to the study to handle some paperwork. As soon as his footsteps faded, I bolted into the bathroom and forced myself to gag.

When I took the pills earlier, I had pressed them under my tongue. Two white tablets landed in the toilet and were quickly flushed away. I washed my face and stared at the woman in the mirror—pale, hollow-eyed, and hollow-cheeked.

If I really were crazy, why were my memories so vivid?

Dorothy had a strawberry-shaped birthmark on her right buttock. She liked to grind her teeth in her sleep, and she hated eating carrots. These details were too oddly specific to be delusions.

No, this couldn't be. Something was wrong for sure.

I stepped out of the bedroom and drifted through the apartment like a lost soul. Everything had been cleaned so thoroughly that there wasn't a trace left of a child ever having lived here.

My mind was on the edge of collapse. My nerves screamed, every sensation raw and disorienting.

Lately, Chester had been busy and was always in the study late into the night. Our conversations had grown shorter and fewer. Even his attitude toward me had subtly changed.

I knew it had to do with my "condition". He didn't want me disturbing him, so he kept me away from the study as much as possible. I respected that until…

Meow…

A soft, almost plaintive meow cut through the silence. It was Pudding, our five-year-old cat, the same age as Dorothy. We had gotten it the year she was born, and they had grown up together.

Pudding padded slowly in front of the balcony. When it passed the so-called study, it stopped. It crouched at the doorway, letting out that sweet, coaxing purr it always used when it wanted a treat.

Then, it did something that made my blood run cold. It stood on its hind legs, front paws gripping about 40 inches above the floor, right at the height Dorothy used to reach.

Before, Dorothy would hide in her room, eating snacks without sharing, and Pudding would paw at the door the same way, begging for a handout.

If there was no child inside but cold, lifeless bookshelves, who was it begging for?

Just then, Chester stepped out of the study, nearly tripping over Pudding. His face flickered with annoyance as he kicked it aside. "Why does this damn cat keep coming here?"