During those seven days, Hannah bathed my wounds with terrible gentleness and cried when she saw the scars on my back. Daniel was quieter, steadier. He changed my bandages, left soup and bread on the table for me, rose in the night when I had nightmares. Every kindness unsettled me because I did not trust it yet.
I lived those days like someone borrowing another child’s life. Every time Hannah kissed my forehead, I thought, when they find out I’m not really hers, they’ll send me back. Every time Daniel called me “my girl,” I clenched my fists under the table to stop myself from shaking.
On the seventh day, the phone rang.
The room went still.
Daniel answered. He listened. He said nothing for several seconds. Then he hung up and stood with his back to us.
Hannah rose, trembling. “Daniel…”
He turned around with tears streaming down his face.
But he was smiling.
He crossed the room, knelt in front of me, and took my hands.
“It’s her,” he said, his voice breaking. “She’s our Lila.”
Hannah sobbed and fell beside him. They wrapped me in their arms.
This time, I broke too.