The Woman They Say I Was

I sit in my rocking chair, gripping my wrist to steady the tremor, willing myself to hold on to something, anything, that will keep me grounded. The little girl beside me looks up, her eyes are so full of a love that I know she has misplaced, and her voice is so soft as she calls me “Grandma,” a name I’ve never known. I know that I'm told I'm supposed to want to know her. But I just don't. The nurse tells me they come and visit me often, but I know that nurse has lied to me before. She tells me I know them, but I can’t trust her, she won’t listen to me when I tell her that I don't know who they are. The woman beside the child, maybe her mother, smiles gently, hiding her tears, “It’s so good to see you, Ms. Grace," she says. I fake my smile and turn my head to see a woman I don’t know stare at me through the mirror. She calls me Ms. Grace, but I don’t know that name either. I can feel the love in her eyes, I can feel the pain hiding there too, and it breaks my heart to know that I am nothing more than an intruder on a life that I will never get back to. When the nurse wheels me back to my room, I feel a hollow ache settle deep within my stomach. I am full of guilt and shame and I cry myself to sleep, fearing that I will wake up tomorrow. As I move to blow out the candle I glance down at my wrist, the faint lines of scars catching my eye, and my heart stumbles; carved deep into my own skin, the words stare back at me: “They aren’t who they say they are.”