The wind played with the edge of my silk scarf as I pedaled slowly down the cobbled street, tulips bouncing gently in the basket of my bike.
Red, yellow, pink their petals catching the morning light like they knew they were being watched.
"Bonjour, Madame Lavigne!" I smiled, ringing my little bell as I passed the florist. I didn't need more flowers I had plenty but I handed her two tulips anyway. "Fresh from my garden. You always say color makes your day better."
She laughed softly and took them like she always did. "You spoil me, Claire."
Maybe I did. Maybe I just liked giving people something beautiful to hold. It didn't cost me anything, not really.
My life was… easy. A little too easy, sometimes.
I lived in a house with six balconies and three staircases, and yet somehow I always found myself in the same sunroom every morning, sipping tea that had been brought to me before I even opened my eyes.
Our chef Renée made croissants so perfect they didn't need butter, and I had an entire wardrobe of clothes I didn't pick for myself.
It wasn't that I didn't work I just didn't have to. I painted, I read, I spent hours cycling through the quieter streets with a basket full of blooms, handing them out to strangers like I had more happiness than I knew what to do with.
Children would run up and take the pink ones. Old men preferred white. And I always saved the last red tulip for the same spot the tiny bakery on the corner where the owner never smiled, but always left the door open for me.
This was my world. Light, calm, untouched. And I liked it that way.
Some days I wondered if it was too soft too perfect like one of those snow globes people shake for fun, not realizing someone inside might be trapped.
But I always brushed the thought away. What was there to worry about? I was healthy. Young. Loved. Life had never given me a reason to question anything.
Until, of course… it did.
But not today. Today, the sky was clear. The streets were warm. And I was just a girl on a bicycle, handing out tulips, pretending nothing in the world could ever change.
Until I got a phone call.
The call from my mother that changed my world. That flipped it upside down before I even had time to ask why.
I was standing outside the bakery, handing the last pink tulip to the girl who always waited by the door little curls tied with ribbon, chocolate on her chin.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I smiled at the girl, tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, and answered without checking the screen.
"Hello?"
Silence.
Not even a breath, just the hum of something heavy pressing on the other side of the line. Then came my mother's voice soft, but not gentle. Tightly held together.
"Claire."
One word. That's all it took for my chest to tighten.
Her voice didn't sound like hers. It was… dry. Like she'd run out of words hours ago.
"Is everything alright?" I asked, already turning back to my bicycle.
A pause.
"Your father is seriously ill. Come home. Now."
That was it. No explanations. No questions. No details.
Just come home. Now.
My heart dropped straight to my feet. I didn't ask anything else. Didn't speak. Didn't breathe, really.
I just hung up, climbed onto my bicycle, and started pedaling.
Harder than before. Faster.
The tulips in my basket jerked with every bump, petals catching the wind.
I turned sharply past the stone path, wheels screeching, my scarf trailing behind me like a tail of panic I couldn't escape.
A few flowers flew out I saw one red tulip land on the road, roll once, then disappear behind me.
I should've stopped. Picked it up. But I couldn't. My hands were shaking on the handlebars. My perfect world was suddenly full of cracks. And I was afraid that the deeper I went, the more would fall apart.
The moment I reached home, something felt wrong.
The door was already open. The air inside was still. Heavy. As if the house itself was holding its breath.
"Papa?" I called, stepping in, my voice trembling before I even saw him.
I didn't wait for an answer.
I dropped my bicycle right by the door, tulip petals clinging to the basket and the floor, and rushed upstairs.
There he was.
Lying in bed. Pale. Too pale. Like someone had drained all the color from his skin and left just enough behind to keep him warm.
"Papa…" My voice cracked as I fell to my knees beside him, clutching his hand his once strong, steady hand now cold, trembling.
He smiled weakly when he saw me. "Claire…"
That was all he said. My name, like it was enough.
And maybe it was, for him. But not for me.
I blinked hard, and the tears came faster than I could stop them.
This wasn't a fever. This wasn't just tiredness. This was something deeper. Something worse.
Behind me, I heard the soft shuffle of footsteps.
I turned around to see my mother standing at the doorway, her eyes red and swollen, a handkerchief crushed between her fingers.
"What's going on?" I asked, my voice rising with panic. "Tell me what's wrong."
She didn't answer.
Just nodded once, gently. "Come, Claire. Let's go talk in the hall."
I didn't want to leave him, but something in her voice told me I had to.
We sat down on the velvet couch, the one she always told me not to ruin with tea.
This time, she didn't care.
She took my hand, but I pulled it away. "Tell me."
Her throat moved like she was swallowing rocks. "Your father's condition… it's critical. His liver is failing. He needs a transplant as soon as possible."
I stood up immediately. "Okay, let's do it. I'll do it. We don't need to wait."
Her eyes flashed with something not relief. Sadness. A deeper sadness.
"Claire—"
"I'm serious," I interrupted, pacing now, hands in my hair. "Why are we wasting time? Just do the tests. Take it. I don't care if it hurts. I don't care about the risks. He's my father."
"No." Her voice was firm, but quiet. "You can't."
"Why?" I snapped. "Why the hell not? My liver will obviously match"
We were father-and-daughter. It would match for sure.
She looked at me then. Really looked. And I saw it.
Something break in her eyes.
"No, sweetheart… it won't."
I stopped moving. The silence between us was loud.
"What do you mean it won't?" I whispered.
Her hands were cold against mine, trembling. "Claire, listen to me."
Pause.
Deep breath. "This is going to hurt. But you need to know the truth."
And then she said it. "You're adopted."
Just like that. A thousand things went quiet inside me all at once.
My ears rang. My lips parted but nothing came out. The couch beneath me felt like it disappeared. She kept talking, but everything sounded far away.
"You were so small when we brought you home," she said, eyes wet again. "So perfect. And we loved you the second we saw you. Nothing about that has ever changed, Claire. You are our daughter—"
This has to be a joke. What the hell?
"No, I'm not," I whispered. I didn't know who I was anymore.