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PROMPT: DIFFERENT

TRIGGER WARNING: ADDICTION AND ADOPTION

Nervously, my foot tapped on the floor, my fingers drumming on the tabletop.

"We can always leave," Emmett said as he caught my fingers in his, his blue eyes full of worry.

"No, we can't," I told him, my entire body tense. I was nervous, scared even.

"Yes, we can," Emmett responded. "You don't owe this woman anything."

I understood where he was coming from. I really did. But she was my mother. She carried me for nine months, gave birth to me and really did try her best. I owed her a lot. The only reason I had become an addiction specialist was because of her - because I watched her go through the turmoil of wanting something so badly you'd do anything for it. And my mother really had done anything. That's how I ended up in care. But unlike many children in the system, I only have good memories to speak of. My adoptive family were some of the best people I had ever met. They loved me when no one else would and taught me what being part of a family was like. I really was one of the lucky ones. I'd been adopted at five years old, so my childhood memories were vague at best. But I remember being cold, hungry, and dirty all the time. I remember trying to wake my mother numerous times, and nothing would happen. On a good day, she'd wave her hand at me or push me away, insisting she needed more sleep.

I, of course, had no idea what was really going on. Only when the neighbour came round and realised I was on my own did help finally come.

A lot of my teenage years were spent being angry at my mother. Angry that I wasn't enough. That the call of the void was more appealing to her than being my mother. It broke my heart.

Years of therapy helped. Years of actually having a mother who did love me. Who was there when my heart was broken. Who was there when I got accepted into my first-choice college. Who was there to see me walk down the aisle. Louisa Whitlock was my mother in every sense of the word. The only thing she didn't do was give birth to me. No, that privilege went to Erin Hale.

She wasn't intrinsically a bad person. Just someone who had lived a very hard life and felt the only way to make it better was through drugs. As an adult, I understood that now. I understood that addiction wasn't as simple as the media made out. It was a complex illness.

Eight months ago, I had made the decision to start a blog - more so for me than anyone else. I wanted to document how my early years had affected me now. After only being online for three months, I had received an email from a private investigator. He was acting on behalf of my mother and wanted to know if I was willing to start contact with her.

I thought about it long and hard. I spoke to my adoptive parents, to Emmett, to my friends, to my therapist. I wanted to make sure I was making the right choice. They all supported me, willing to go with whatever I decided.

Erin and I began communicating via email. Just once a week. I was very guarded with her. I told her the most minimal details about my life whilst she divulged the darkest secrets of hers. I learnt that after I was taken away, she continued to use. She felt that she was worthless. Rock bottom came for her when she ate food from a garbage can.

It took several years, but eventually, she could say she was clean. She fell off the wagon twice, and both times, she checked herself into a rehab facility. She was engaged to a lady called Jane. They had three cats, a dog, and a pet pig. She lived in a small house with a garden where Jane grew various herbs and vegetables. She worked as a support worker at one of the local rehab centres. She seemed to have her life on track.

Yet, I was still wary. I was still nervous to meet this woman. It was partly morbid curiosity that led to me agreeing to this. I had always been curious about where I came from. The person I remembered from my childhood had never looked anything like me. Whereas my hair was light blonde, hers was dark. Where my eyes were blue, hers were green. Where I was plump and curvy, she was thin and bony.

"Rose," Emmett squeezed my hands, and my head shot up to the door, where a woman entered. She had a headband around her greying hair and a pair of glasses perched on her nose. She wore a flowing yellow dress with a handmade cardigan over her shoulders. A pair of dirty old trainers adorned her feet, and she was clutching onto a tote bag as if her life depended on it.

When she spotted us, she stopped in her tracks before taking a deep breath and walking towards us, a small but nervous smile on her face. Emmett and I both stood, my legs suddenly feeling like jelly.

"Hello," she greeted, stopping a few feet away from me. There were unshed tears in her eyes. "You look so beautiful."

I blushed at her comment. I was wearing a pair of torn jeans, a flowy blouse, and my favourite pair of converse.

"Hi." I wasn't too sure what to say. My heart was pounding in my chest, and my palms felt very wet.

"You must be Emmett." I could see her taking him in. He was tall - six foot four with shoulders that were very broad. His short, dirty blonde hair was curled over his forehead, and his blue eyes were scanning over her. He accepted my decision to want to meet my birth mother, but I also knew he was concerned I would get hurt.

Erin cleared her throat, her eyes darting between us. "I just want to say, before we sit down, before we talk, before we do anything. We're different people now, so I hope we can meet again for the first time."

She released her bag with a shaky hand and held it out to me. "Hello. My name is Erin."

Reaching out, I took her hand. "Hello, Erin. I'm Rosalie."

#different

"We're different people now, so I hope we can meet again for the first time."