Chapter 6: New Rooms, New Rules

That night, we had a big family dinner. The dining room was bathed in soft light, a dozen candles flickering on the sideboard. The table was set with heavy china and gleaming silverware. It felt like Thanksgiving, only more formal.

After confirming I had no food allergies, the family chef put on a show. He wore a tall white hat and moved with precision. Dishes rolled out one after another—steak, roasted vegetables, something French I couldn’t pronounce. My stomach rumbled, but I missed the down-home smells of sausage and cornbread.

The clink of silverware echoed in the formal dining room, and the steak bled pink onto the fancy plates. I missed the sizzle of sausage in a cast-iron pan and the chatter of my old kitchen. Platters covered every inch of polished wood—each one arranged like a magazine spread. Someone poured sparkling cider into tall glasses, and I tried to act like I belonged.

Everyone else handled their steak with practiced elegance. I watched as forks and knives moved with ease, conversation flowing around me. Even Emily, fresh out of the hospital, cut her meat perfectly.

I fumbled awkwardly with my knife and fork, totally unaccustomed to this kind of food. The steak tasted bland—I just missed the pig intestines I’d washed but never got to eat. I tried to hide my struggle, but second brother noticed and quietly demonstrated for me, his smile reassuring. I longed for a heap of mashed potatoes and a slice of home-cured bacon. My stomach growled, and I felt a pang of homesickness.

After dinner, I glanced at the storage room in the corner downstairs and started to walk over, but Mom suddenly called out to me. Her voice was gentle but firm, the way Mom back home used to sound when I was about to do something silly. She looked at me like she already knew what I was thinking.

"Abby, why are you heading to the storage room?"

She put down her wine glass and waited for my answer, her eyes kind.

I answered meekly, "Isn’t that my room?"

I kept my voice low, half-expecting someone to tell me I was in the way. My cheeks burned with embarrassment. Of course. The attic, the basement, the room with the broken window—there’s always a catch. I braced myself for disappointment.

In all those stories, the real daughter who comes home can’t compete with the fake daughter for a room, so she always gets shoved into the attic or a storage room. The attic, the drafty spare room, even the laundry closet—I’d read it all. I braced myself for the worst.

Mom paused, then took my hand. Her grip was warm and steady. I felt a little safer, even as my heart pounded.

She led me upstairs and opened a door. The hallway was wide and carpeted, with family photos on the walls. She stopped at a door painted pale pink and smiled at me.

Inside was a pink-and-white princess room, clearly prepared with care. There was a canopied bed, ruffled curtains, and shelves lined with stuffed animals and books. It looked like the kind of room I’d always wished for as a kid.

"How could Mom let you stay in the storage room? This is the room I made just for you."

She brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, her voice proud. I could tell she’d picked out every detail herself.

I grew even more flustered. My hands twisted in my sweater. I blinked back tears, not sure whether to laugh or cry.

"Then… what about Emily?"

I couldn’t help but worry. Was I stealing her place? Would she resent me for it?

"Emily’s room is right next door."

Mom smiled, the tension easing from her face. “You’ll be neighbors—close enough to visit, but with your own space.”

Mom softened her voice as she explained. She looked tired, but her smile never faltered. She squeezed my shoulder.

"Abby, your dad and I talked things over with your adoptive parents. You and your sister are both in high school, and Chicago has better schools, so Emily will stay here for now and go to school with you.

Even though Emily isn’t related to us by blood, she’s lived with us for so many years. We have feelings for her—just like your adoptive parents can’t bear to part with you."

Her words wrapped around me like a warm blanket. She made it clear that this wasn’t a competition, that both of us belonged here in our own way.

This mom was nothing like the ones in the books. She reminded me of the way my old mom used to brush my hair and hum while making pancakes. There was a softness in her eyes that made it impossible to doubt her sincerity.

She was gentler and more open-minded. She wasn’t afraid to talk about her feelings, or to let me see her vulnerability. It was new and a little scary, but also comforting.

Worried I’d overthink things, she patiently explained everything to me. She stayed until she was sure I understood. She answered every question, no matter how small. It was the first time in days that I felt like I could breathe.

Before I knew it, my nose tingled and I almost cried again. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the tears. My heart ached, but in a good way—like someone had finally turned on the light after a long, dark night.

"Mom, I understand."

My voice was shaky, but I meant it. She smiled and hugged me one more time before slipping out, the door closing softly behind her.

She smiled, told me to rest, patted my head, and left the room. I stood in the middle of the room, taking it all in. It still felt like a dream.

She’d barely left when someone knocked on the door. The knock was soft, hesitant. I wiped my eyes and opened it a crack, bracing myself.

It was Emily Young… no, now she’s Emily Miller. She stood in the doorway, her hair pulled back, eyes bright but wary. She looked just as nervous as I felt.

She looked at me, I looked at her. Neither of us said a word for a long moment. The silence stretched out, heavy and awkward.

We both went silent. It was like we were both waiting for the other to say something first, afraid to break the fragile peace.

I instinctively shrank back, but Emily suddenly said:

Her hands were balled into fists, knuckles white. “Look, I’m not mad at you, okay? I just… I don’t know how to do this either.”

She stepped forward, her voice clear and steady, not a hint of resentment in her tone. "You don’t have to be afraid of me." She was direct. "It wasn’t my fault we were switched at birth. I never meant to steal the life that should’ve been yours. I was sad to find out the truth, but I’m not going to turn into some villain from a soap opera and bully you."

Her words tumbled out in a rush. She sounded tired, but honest. It was more than I’d expected, and I felt some of the fear melt away.

I was stunned. It wasn’t the confrontation I’d been dreading. If anything, she seemed almost relieved to get it off her chest.

She came in and pulled me to sit on the bed. Her grip was warm and steady. We sat side by side, awkward at first, then a little less so as the seconds ticked by.

"Abby, can you tell me… what your family is like?"

Her voice was soft, almost shy. I realized that she was just as lost as I was, both of us trying to find our place in this strange, new reality.