The Morning After
Tracy's POV
When I woke, for a moment I forgot where I was.
The quilt was soft against my cheek, the faint smell of lavender clinging to it. My body had sunk so deep into the mattress, so unlike the stiff beds of the Alcott estate, that for the briefest second, I thought I was a child again— safe in a world where my mother still hummed in the kitchen.
Then memory crashed in. The ropes. The rain. The voices on the radio. My family.
I opened my eyes. The room was small, walls painted a fading cream color, light creeping through thin curtains. It was not mine. None of it was mine. And yet, I felt… cocooned.
My throat was dry, heavy with the memory of last night's crying. I dragged myself up, the old quilt falling to my lap, and sat there for a long time staring at the wall. My body felt lighter, but my chest— my chest carried the same unbearable weight.
A knock at the door startled me.
"Sweetie? You awake?" Mrs. Callahan's voice was soft, careful, like she was speaking to someone fragile.
I cleared my throat. "Yes." It came out hoarse.
The door cracked open and she peeked in, smiling gently. She was holding a tray. On it was a plate of toast, butter melting into it, and a steaming mug of tea. The smell filled the room, simple but comforting.
"I thought you might need something warm in your belly." she said.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. "Thank you."
She set the tray down on the dresser, her eyes lingering on me the way mothers do when they are silently checking if you're alright. "Eat while it's hot." she said. "And… when you are ready, maybe come to the living room. There's something you should see."
Her tone worried me. I wanted to ask what it was, but I did not have the courage yet.
When she left, I forced myself to eat. The toast crunched softly, the butter sinking into the bread, warm and salty. Each bite felt like it was fighting its way down my throat. But it was the tea that steadied me, the steam warming my face, calming my trembling hands.
I changed back into the nightgown she'd lent me and padded barefoot to the living room. Mrs. Callahan was there, sitting on her small sofa, her hands folded in her lap. The TV was on, the screen filled with bright colors, newscasters' serious faces.
I froze at the doorway.
My face was not there— of course it wasn't, no one knew my face— but my name filled the screen in bold white letters. "Tracy Alcott Missing."
I sat down slowly, my pulse racing.
"…sources close to the family suggest that Tracy was unstable in recent months…" the newscaster droned, eyes sharp with interest rather than concern. "There are even claims she fled on her wedding day in shame after secrets surfaced regarding her identity."
I felt my stomach twist.
The camera shifted to a woman I knew all too well. My mother. Perfect hair, perfect pearls, perfect icy composure.
"She is not my child." she said, her voice as smooth as silk, as cold as marble. "Tracy is not an Alcott by blood. She was brought into this family under complicated circumstances years ago, and the truth is… she does not belong to us."
My vision blurred.
Not because it was a lie— because it was not.
I had always known. In whispers, in sideways glances, in the way my mother's eyes never softened the way a mother's should. I was adopted by them years ago. My father had been the one to insist I was his daughter no matter what the blood said. But now… hearing it on national television, delivered like a public verdict, stripped away whatever fragile thread of belonging I had left.
"She's chosen her path." my mother continued. "But let it be clear— Tracy Alcott is not an Alcott. Not before- Not anymore."
The news anchor's voice cut back in, "Speculation continues to swirl around her disappearance, with some suggesting foul play, others claiming she ran away to avoid disgrace…"
I couldn't hear anymore. I pressed my palms to my ears, shaking my head. My body trembled as if the words had seeped into my bones.
A hand touched my shoulder. Warm. Steady. Mrs. Callahan.
I had not even realized I was crying until she gently wiped a tear from my cheek.
"Sweetheart…" she whispered. Her eyes were soft, full of the sympathy I had never once seen in my mother's. "I am so sorry."
My chest heaved, a broken laugh forcing its way out. "Don't be. They are right. I'm not their daughter. I never was."
Her brows knit together. "That doesn't make you less of a person. Family isn't just blood."
Her words should have comforted me, but they stung instead, because deep down I wanted to scream: But I wanted it to be blood. I wanted to belong to them.
I wanted to be worth fighting for.
Instead, I sat there on her small sofa- in a stranger's nightgown, watching my life torn apart on television while the only person who cared enough to be near me was a woman who didn't even know me yesterday.
"Eat your breakfast, child." Mrs. Callahan said softly, her hand still on my shoulder. "And rest as long as you need. You are safe here."
Safe.
The word echoed inside me. But it did not fill the hollow place where home was supposed to be.
I leaned against her for a moment, letting myself be small, letting myself exist without having to be Tracy the bride, or Tracy the Alcott, or Tracy the scandal. Just… Tracy.
And for now, that would have to be enough.