When I returned to my parents’ house, my mother looked worn down, almost afraid. She asked how long I planned to keep hiding it. When I said I didn’t understand, she led me to her bedroom. A baby was sleeping there. She said I’d left her a week ago. I laughed—until she handed me a note. The handwriting was unmistakably mine. “I’ll be right back.” My knees went weak. Because I had no memory of leaving a baby behind— and no explanation for how my own handwriting had betrayed me.

She looked smaller somehow. Tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix. Her hands kept twisting the hem of her sweater as she watched me take off my coat.

“How long are you planning to keep hiding it?” she asked quietly.

I frowned. “Hiding what?”

She didn’t answer. She just turned and walked down the hallway, expecting me to follow. Her bedroom door was half open. The curtains were drawn, the light dim.

And there, in the center of the room, was a crib.

A baby was sleeping inside it.

I laughed—an automatic, nervous sound. “Mom, whose baby is that?”

She looked at me like I’d said something cruel. “Yours,” she replied. “You left her here a week ago.”

My smile faded. “That’s not funny.”

“I didn’t say it to be funny.”

She crossed the room and gently adjusted the blanket around the baby, who stirred but didn’t wake. The child looked about three months old. Dark hair. Long lashes. Peaceful.

“I don’t have a baby,” I said, my voice sharper now. “I’ve never been pregnant.”

My mother straightened and reached into her nightstand drawer. “Then explain this.”

She handed me a folded piece of paper.

The moment I saw it, my stomach dropped.

The handwriting was unmistakably mine—slanted letters, uneven spacing, the way I always crossed my t’s too low.

Only four words were written.

I’ll be right back.

My knees went weak. I had to grab the dresser to stay upright.

Because I had no memory of leaving a baby behind.

And no explanation for how my own handwriting had betrayed me

My mother guided me to the bed and made me sit, like I was the fragile one.

“You came late that night,” she said softly. “You were exhausted. You didn’t want to wake the baby. You said it was temporary.”

“That’s impossible,” I whispered. “I’ve been living alone for years.”

She shook her head. “You’ve been forgetting things longer than you realize.”

She told me about the week I supposedly left the baby there. How I’d stayed only ten minutes. How I’d checked the locks twice. How I’d asked her not to tell anyone.

“You said she gets upset when there are too many people,” my mother added. “You said she’s better if she doesn’t see mirrors.”

A cold wave passed through me.

“I never said that.”

My mother hesitated. “You did. And you sounded scared.”

I stood up and backed away from the crib. The baby shifted again, one tiny hand curling around the air, like it was reaching for something just out of sight.

“Where’s the father?” I asked.

My mother swallowed. “You told me not to ask that.”

I went to the bathroom and locked the door. My reflection stared back at me—pale, hollow-eyed, older than I remembered. I rolled up my sleeve.

There were faint marks on my arm.

Not bruises.

Handprints.

Too small to be adult.

Too deliberate to be accidental.

When I returned to the bedroom, the baby was awake.

Her eyes were open.

And they were looking directly at me.

She didn’t cry.

She smiled.

My mother exhaled shakily. “She only does that when you’re here.”

Something inside my head shifted, like a door moving on rusted hinges. A pressure built behind my eyes.

Fragments surfaced—dark rooms, whispered counting, writing notes I didn’t remember writing, standing over a crib telling myself this time it will work.

I staggered back.

“That’s not my child,” I said.

My mother’s voice broke. “Then why does she stop crying when you leave?”

That night, I didn’t sleep.

I sat in the hallway outside my mother’s room, listening to the baby breathe. Every so often, she made a soft sound—not quite a cry, not quite a laugh.

Sometime near dawn, my phone vibrated.

A notification.

A draft message.

Unsent.

The timestamp was from eight days ago.

Don’t let her near the mirrors. If she sees herself too clearly, she remembers.

My blood ran cold.

I searched my phone further. Hidden notes. Photos I didn’t recall taking. Images of empty rooms. Reflections cut off at the edges. My own face, staring into glass with something moving behind me.

The truth didn’t arrive all at once.

It leaked in.

I hadn’t forgotten the baby.

I had abandoned her—over and over again—because every time I stayed too long, things got worse. Because she wasn’t born.

She was brought back.

And I was the only one who could do it.

The baby began to cry then, sharp and desperate.

I stood up.

In the mirror at the end of the hallway, my reflection lagged half a second behind me.

And in its arms, it was holding a child.

If you’ve ever found evidence you can’t explain…
If you’ve ever felt time slipping where memory should be…
If you’ve ever wondered what you’d hide from yourself to survive—

Then you understand why some notes are written for forgetting, not remembering.

I don’t know how long before I leave her again.

But judging by the note in my handwriting—

I always come back.