**Diary Entry 12th June**
I was perched outside the shop, my knees pressed together, balancing a paper-wrapped sandwich like it was something precious. My boyfriend, James, was inside, trying on yet another nearly identical navy jumper.
Id taken the Tube two stops out of my way just for this sandwichthe one from that tiny bakery with the sage-green awning. They only made a dozen a day: crusty bread that snapped under your fingers, roast chicken with thyme, sharp apple slaw, and a tangy mustard spread that made your mouth water.
I hadnt been back to this part of London since uni, and Id planned to eat right there on the bench while James fussed over his wardrobe.
Then she sat beside me.
The elderly woman moved like someone used to making herself small. Her coat was worn, missing a button, and her hands rested neatly in her lap. Her hair, mostly silver with traces of dark brown, was pinned into a bun that looked half-finishedas if shed started it and then resigned herself to imperfection.
Her gaze lingered on my sandwich.
Not staringjust acknowledging.
When our eyes met, she smiled. It was the sort of smile that carried both apology and longing, like shed spent years perfecting the art of going unnoticed.
“Enjoy your lunch, dear,” she said. “You remind me so much of my granddaughter.”
“Really? She mustve been lovely, then,” I replied, trying to ease the sudden tightness in my chest.
“Oh, she was,” the woman murmured. “She passed two and a half years ago. Since then, Ive just been… getting by.”
Something flickered in my memorya dusty shoebox tucked behind my winter scarves. One I hadnt opened in years.
I caught my reflection in the shop window: freckles, my usual unruly fringe. I gave a quiet laugh because sometimes, when a stranger hands you their grief, laughter is all youve got.
Something in me softened and strengthened at once. I tore the sandwich in half and held it out.
“Are you hungry?”
Her eyes welled up instantly, as if shed been waiting for permission to feel anything at all. She noddedshy, almost ashamed, as though hunger were a secret shed been caught keeping.
“Please,” I insisted, pressing the half into her hands. “Take this while I pop inside to get you a few things. Ill be right back.”
“Thats too kind,” she whispered, fingers barely grazing the paper. “Really, dont trouble yourself.”
“Its not kindness,” I said. “Its just… what anyone would do.”
She gave me a look I couldnt quite placegratitude, hesitationbut I sensed shed already decided she wouldnt stay. Still, she took the sandwich.
Inside, I grabbed a basket and filled it without thinking. Porridge, tinned soup, tea, apples, bananas, milk. Then a loaf of sourdough. And another.
I couldnt stop thinking about her hands, folded so carefully in her lap.
When I finished, I nearly collided with James.
“Whered you vanish to?” he asked.
I explained quickly, scanning the streetbut the bench was empty. Only a single breadcrumb remained.
“Maybe she was embarrassed,” James said gently, taking the bag from me and kissing my forehead. “You tried, Emily. Thats what matters.”
I nodded, though my chest ached. I hadnt expected to feel rejected, but I did. Not just because shed gone, but because I couldnt do more.
That night, one sentence echoed in my mind:
*”You remind me so much of my granddaughter.”*
I hadnt opened that shoebox in years.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, I pulled it out, dust clouding the air. Inside were fragments of a story I barely knew: a hospital wristband, a yellowed clipping from a village fête, a photograph torn cleanly in half. My half showed a woman cradling a baby. Her smile was quiet, certain. On the back, in faded blue ink, a date and one word: *”Stay.”*
I stared longer than I meant to, then left the box at the foot of my bed like a silent witness, falling asleep with questions hanging in the air.
The next afternoon, a knock came at the door.
She stood theresame coat, same missing button.
“Im sorry,” she said quickly. “I left because I didnt want you spending on me. My name is Margaret.”
Then she held out a photograph.
“But I had to be sure, dear. When I saw your face, I couldnt breathe. I knew Id seen you beforeor someone like you.”
My hands shook the moment I saw the torn edgethe same scalloped cut, the other half of the womans smile. A perfect match.
I ran to fetch my half, sliding it from between an old train ticket and a frayed ribbon. When I pressed them together, they fit seamlessly, as if theyd been waiting.
*”Find. Stay.”*
I mustve made a sound, because James appeared, tea towel over his shoulder. He looked at me, then at Margaret, then at the photograph trembling in my hands.
“Whats happening?” he asked softly.
“I think this means something,” I said.
“It does,” Margaret replied from the doorway. “But firstmay I come in?”
I nodded, and she stepped inside like someone unsure she belonged. We made teabecause when the world tilts, you cling to small, familiar things.
“I know its odd, me turning up like this,” she said once wed settled. “After you left the shop, I followed at a distance. I recognised the pub near your flat and waited… but I couldnt bring myself to knock until now.”
She hesitated.
“Margaret was my granddaughter. Your twin sister. My daughter, Louise, had twins. She was young, aloneshe couldnt raise two babies. So she made the hardest choice and let you go to a family who could give you what she couldnt.”
“My parents always told me I was adopted,” I said. “But no one mentioned a sister.”
“Margaret knew,” she said over her tea. “On her last birthday, she wrote a list. The first thing was: *Find my sister.*”
James looked stunned.
“She also made a kindness list,” Margaret added. “One small act each week. We were on Week Nine when…” Her voice trailed off.
“What was Week Nine?” I asked.
“Paying for someones groceries,” she said, eyes glistening. “We argued whether a sandwich counted.”
James squeezed my shoulder.
“Ill give you two space,” he said.
“No,” Margaret said quickly. “Stay. Emily needs you here too.”
We talked for hours. About Margarethow she painted her front door bright red because it made her smile. How she whistled when nervous. How she volunteered at the food bank and once accidentally took home a stray cat, convinced it was lost.
And how she hated marzipan but always nibbled it at Christmas, “just in case” her tastes had changed.
“She didnt believe in giving up on things,” Margaret said.
Her words wrapped around me like a patchwork quiltdifferent pieces, but they fit.
Later, I asked the question Id been holding back.
“What about Louise? My birth mother?”
Margarets gaze dropped.
“She passed when Margaret was ten. The doctors said it was her heart, but I think grief started it. She was fragile, dear. She never forgave herself for letting you gobut she loved you both. Always wondered about you.”
That line stayed with me.
That evening, I called MumSarah, the woman whod sat up with me through every childhood fever and sewn the arm back on my teddy bear three times after the dog got hold of it.
I told her everything. First in a rush, then slowly. She listened, absorbing each word.
When I finished, she paused, then said softly, “Come over.”
“Ill bring Margaret,” I replied.
“Of course, love. Bring all the pieces. Bring your shoebox.”
James drove us. We didnt speak much, but the silence felt solid.
At Mums, the door swung open before we knocked. She pulled me into a hug that smelled like home, thenwithout hesitationdrew Margaret into the same embrace.
“Im Sarah,” she said warmly.
“Margaret,” came the quiet reply. “Thank you for having me.”
“If youre part of Emilys story, you belong here.”
We sat at the kitchen tablethe same one where Id iced biscuits for school fairs and sobbed over algebra. Mum laid out shortbread and steaming mugs.
I placed the photograph halves side by side.
“I didnt know,” Mum said quietly. “The agency never mentioned a twin. They said her mother was young, scared, and wanted her baby to have a chance. If Id known… Emily, Id have told you.”
“I know,” I said quickly.
“I never wanted to hide anything
