Vanessa pushed baby Emma’s stroller toward the pool, then cried like Clara was the one who did it.

We began the search immediately.

Adrian hired the best investigators money could buy. We had a name. A country she had supposedly traveled to. A description. But five years was a long time. People moved. Changed names. Disappeared.

Days turned into weeks. Emma asked about Vanessa—why she was gone, why she wouldn’t be coming back. We told her gently that Vanessa had gone away and wouldn’t return. We didn’t tell her the rest. Not yet. Not until we knew for certain.

Olivia sensed something was wrong. She came to me one evening, quiet and thoughtful.

“Is something wrong with Emma’s real mom?” she asked directly.

I hesitated. “Why do you ask?”

“Because Dad looks like he did when Mom died. And you look sad. And you’re always on the phone.” She sat beside me. “Is she alive?”

I looked at this brave, perceptive twelve-year-old. I nodded slowly.

“We think so. We’re trying to find her.”

Olivia was quiet for a moment. Then she took my hand.

“If you find her… will Emma leave us?”

My heart ached for her. I squeezed her hand.

“Emma will always be loved. No matter what. By her mother. By you. By me. By everyone.”

“But will she leave?” Olivia insisted.

“Only if she wants to,” I said honestly. “And even if she does… you will always be her sister. And I will always be here. Nothing will ever change that.”

Olivia leaned her head on my shoulder.