“It Started with a Drawing”

It was just another ordinary afternoon in my classroom. The students had rushed out the door, leaving behind scattered papers, broken pencils, and half-empty water bottles. As I tidied up, something caught my eye—a single sheet left behind on a desk.

A drawing.

At first glance, it was simple: a house by a lake, tall trees swaying behind it, and a garden bursting with **yellow roses.**

My breath **hitched.**

**I knew this house.**

Not just in the way you recognize a familiar style of architecture or a scene from a postcard. No—I **knew** this house. The slant of the roof, the way the lake reflected the sky, the way those yellow roses framed the porch.

Because once, as a child, I had drawn this exact picture. **Over and over again.**

My hands trembled as I turned the paper over. Scrawled in the corner was a name. **Lily.**

The next day, I waited until class was over before approaching her. **”Lily, this drawing… where did you see this house?”**

She beamed. **”It’s my grandma’s! I love visiting her, but we don’t go much. Mom’s always too busy.”**

**Her grandma’s?**

A tight knot formed in my stomach. **This was my childhood home.**

A place I had **never** returned to.

I hesitated, then took a deep breath. **”Lily, would you like me to take you there? I can talk to your mom.”**

To my shock, her mother agreed without much fuss. “If you can handle the long drive, be my guest,” she said, sighing. “I should visit more, but you know how life is.”

Two days later, Lily and I were driving down winding roads, deeper into the countryside. My pulse quickened as the surroundings became more familiar—like a **ghost of a memory resurfacing.**

Then, finally, we turned a bend, and I saw it.

**The house.**

It was older now, weathered by time, but the yellow roses still bloomed like tiny golden suns.

The door creaked open, and an elderly woman stepped out. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, **locked onto mine.**

Something in her gaze made my heart **stumble.**

Lily ran to her. **”Grandma, look who came with me! My teacher!”**

Her grandmother barely acknowledged her, her stare fixed on me.

“Who are you?” she asked, voice tight.

I swallowed, my mouth dry. **”I don’t know,”** I admitted. **”But I think… I think this used to be my home.”**

Her expression **darkened.** Then, slowly, she stepped aside. **”Come in.”**

The moment I entered, it hit me—**the smell.** Old wood, fresh roses, something faintly sweet in the air. My childhood memories were blurry, but this? **This was familiar.**

Then I saw it.

**A framed photo on the wall.**

A young woman holding a baby, smiling.

My knees nearly **buckled.**

Because I **had** this same photo—tucked away in a shoebox, the only relic from my past.

I turned to the old woman, my voice shaking. **”Who is this?”**

Her breath hitched. Her eyes filled with tears. **”It’s you, isn’t it?”**

Everything around me blurred. My heart pounded in my ears.

Because in that moment, I realized the truth:

**I hadn’t been abandoned.**

I had been taken.