I’d sold the house, ready to fly to Canada and join my daughter. The day before I was set to leave, Mrs. Gable from downstairs asked me to help carry a new fifty-pound bag of rice up to her apartment. I was breathless by the time I reached her door, just as her daughter-in-law, Sarah, was getting home from work. She saw me, froze for a second, and then quickly pulled me aside. She shoved a folded piece of paper into my hand, her eyes wide with panic, and urged me to leave. Confused, I unfolded the note. It contained a single, terrifying sentence: “Your daughter died in a car crash last month. The person you’re talking to is an imposter!” In that instant, my world plunged into an icy abyss. The plane ticket in my pocket felt like a shard of frozen steel. 1 A roar filled my head, something inside me shattering as my vision went white. The world fell silent, replaced by the frantic, deafening drum of my own heart against my ribs. A prank. It had to be a sick prank by some bored, cruel person. My daughter, Emily, my only child—it was impossible. Just yesterday, we’d been on a video call. She was smiling, telling me how brilliant the Canadian maples were, how warm and cozy she’d made the room she’d prepared for me. My hand, clutching the note, was trembling violently. The flimsy piece of paper felt as heavy as lead. I had to know. Now. My fingers, moving with a will of their own, unlocked my phone. I found the number I had pinned to the top of my contacts, the one labeled “My Emmy,” and started a video call. Every second of the ringing tone was an agony, stripping my nerves bare. She answered. The screen lit up. A familiar face appeared against a dim background, the connection spotty and the image pixelated. It was my daughter’s face, her eyes curved into a gentle smile, though she looked pale and tired. “Mom? What’s up?” Her voice on the other end held the perfect measure of concern, laced with an almost imperceptible weariness. “Are you exhausted from all the packing? I told you, don’t bring any of that old stuff. I’ll buy you all new things when you get here.” My throat felt like it was clogged with cement. I couldn’t form a single word. I stared, desperate, at the face on the screen, searching for a single flaw, any sign that this wasn’t her. There was nothing. It was the face I had watched for thirty years, a face I knew better than my own. “Mom? Say something. You’re scaring me.” “…It’s nothing.” The words scraped their way out of my throat, dry and rough as sandpaper. “I’m just… just going to miss this old house.” I forced a smile that felt more painful than a sob. The “daughter” on the screen seemed to sense my unease. Her smile faded, and her tone sharpened. “Mom, this is no time for that. The ticket is booked. I’ve arranged for the lawyer and the doctor here in Canada. We need to get the paperwork sorted and get you a full check-up as soon as you arrive.” “You have to be at the airport on time tomorrow, do you hear me? Don’t mess this up.” A lawyer? A doctor? She’d never mentioned any of that before. A cold, commanding tone I’d never heard from her sliced through the screen. “Okay… I know.” I numbly ended the call. The phone slipped from my limp grasp, hitting the floor and shattering the screen into a spiderweb of cracks. My legs gave out, and I slid down the cold wall of the stairwell, crumpling onto the steps. The black ink on the note and the urgent, demanding words of my “daughter” tangled and clashed in my mind. One said my daughter was dead. The other was pushing me to get to Canada as fast as possible. Once planted, the seed of doubt grew with terrifying speed, sprouting thorny vines that wrapped around my heart, squeezing until it bled. My mind raced, and I suddenly realized how strange her behavior had been over the past month. She never let me talk to any of our relatives, always blaming the time difference. My sister, who loves to chat, had tried to video call her niece several times, only to be shut down with excuses about work or a bad signal. I remembered, too, how I’d casually brought up a funny story from her childhood—the time she was chased by the neighbor’s dog and fell into a ditch. On the video call, she had stared blankly for a long moment before mumbling, “That was so long ago, I don’t really remember.” At the time, I just thought she’d outgrown her childhood memories. Now I knew the horrifying truth. It wasn’t that she’d forgotten. It was that she never knew in the first place. A sharp chime broke the silence. A text from my bank. A new deposit of five thousand dollars had just hit my account. Immediately, my phone rang again. It was “Emily,” a voice call this time, her tone sickeningly sweet. “Mom, I sent you a little spending money. Buy yourself some nice new clothes for the trip, and some snacks for the plane.” “Don’t be afraid to spend it. Your daughter will take care of you from now on.” The false warmth was a poisoned dagger twisting in my gut. An overwhelming wave of grief and rage at being so cruelly deceived threatened to burn away my sanity. No. I couldn’t fall apart. If the note was true, if my Emmy was really… gone… then who was this imposter? What did this demon who had stolen my daughter’s identity want from me? She had tricked me into selling my home, into traveling alone to a foreign country. Her goal wasn’t just money. I took a deep, shuddering breath of the cold air, forcing myself to think. I picked up the shattered phone and called the number back. The moment she answered, I let out a choked, hysterical sob. “Oh, Emily, honey, you’re such a good daughter! Mom is so touched, so proud of you.” “Don’t you worry about a thing. I’ll be there on time tomorrow, I promise! I won’t be a minute late!” 2 That night, I lay awake, staring into the darkness until dawn. The patterns on the ceiling twisted and morphed, forming my daughter’s smiling face before shattering into nothingness. Grief washed over me in relentless waves, threatening to break the dam of my composure. But I couldn’t cry. Not yet. At five in the morning, I knocked on Mrs. Gable’s door. She answered, bleary-eyed and surprised to see me. I managed a weary smile and handed her a bag of fruit. “Mrs. Gable, thank you for everything over the years. I was hoping I could speak to Sarah for a moment, just to thank her for her reminder yesterday.” Sarah, the young woman who had given me the note. Mrs. Gable led me inside. Sarah soon emerged from her room in her pajamas, her eyes full of concern. She ushered me into her room and carefully closed the door. “Ma’am, are you…” The moment I saw her kind face, my carefully constructed facade crumbled. Tears streamed down my cheeks. “The note… is it true?” Sarah didn't speak. She silently retrieved a file folder from her nightstand and pulled out a set of photocopied documents. Her movements were gentle, but the papers felt like red-hot irons, searing my eyes. The bolded text at the top of the first page read: “International Waybill.” The recipient was my daughter, Emily. And the item being shipped: “Deceased’s Personal Effects.” Attached was a summary of a death certificate. The date of death was the fifteenth of last month. The cause: “Traffic Accident.” The last sliver of hope was annihilated by the black-and-white proof. My Emmy, the girl who had promised to show me the world, was gone. A raw, guttural sob tore from my throat, and the world started to go black. Sarah caught me, gently rubbing my back and pressing a glass of warm water into my hand. “You have to stay strong,” she whispered, her voice a soothing balm. “This shipment came through my logistics company. The recipient’s information was so strange—that’s why I looked into the original file.” “The recipient was listed as Emily, but the contact number was unknown, and the address was just a vague forwarding point.” I forced myself to look up from the depths of my despair, latching onto that crucial detail. The scammers didn’t just want my money. They were intercepting my daughter’s belongings. This was bigger, deeper. Her death might not have been an accident at all. The terrifying thought sent a chill through my entire body. I gripped Sarah’s hand like a lifeline. “Sarah, can you… can you help me one more time?” “I need to know where my daughter’s things ended up. I need every single detail you can find.” Sarah nodded firmly. Just then, my phone buzzed. A video call from the imposter. I quickly wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and answered. “Mom, are you up? All packed?” The woman’s voice was still cloyingly sweet. This time, I clearly saw the shadow of a man move quickly behind her. My heart seized. She hastily adjusted the camera angle, laughing it off. “Oh, that was just a colleague, stopping by to say hello.” Her smile was flawless as she added, “I’ve got everything arranged for you here in Canada, Mom. You’re going to have a wonderful life.” I looked at the face on the screen, a face that was a cruel seventy percent replica of my daughter’s, and felt a tidal wave of hatred rise within me. Tears streamed down my face, but I smiled into the camera. “I believe you, sweetie. I’ll do whatever you say.” “I’ll be there tomorrow. My Emmy will be at the airport to pick me up, right?” My expression, a grotesque mask of tears and smiles, must have looked insane. But that monster, she saw only an old woman’s sentimental joy and bittersweet farewell. 3 The next morning, as planned, I dragged an empty suitcase to the curb in front of my old building. A black sedan was already waiting. A wiry man with a pasted-on smile got out. He introduced himself as Rick, a guy from our hometown who my “daughter” had sent to pick me up. He was overly attentive, loading my suitcase into the trunk while peppering me with questions, but his eyes were like a hawk’s, watching my every move. The car pulled smoothly onto the highway, heading for the airport. My heart hammered against my ribs, my palms slick with cold sweat. Step one of my plan was to throw them off schedule. Just as we merged onto the elevated expressway, I let out a sharp cry and slapped my thigh. Rick’s head whipped around. “Mrs. Chen, what’s wrong?” I put on a performance of utter devastation, my voice cracking as if on the verge of tears. “Oh, no! I… I left something incredibly important back at the house! It was a family heirloom from my late husband. I have to go back for it!” Rick’s friendly demeanor vanished. His face hardened. “Ma’am, we can’t do that. The plane won’t wait.” His tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. My demeanor changed in a flash. My panic morphed into a full-blown tantrum. “I don’t care! It’s the only thing I have left of my husband! It’s more important than my life! If I don’t get it today, I’m not going!” I wailed, reaching for the door handle as if I might jump out. The driver, hired by Rick, started laying on the horn, muttering about what a pain I was. The car was thick with tension. I was betting on one thing: they wouldn't dare cause a public scene in broad daylight. Their entire operation depended on secrecy. They couldn't risk attracting any unwanted attention. Rick’s face was grim, his eyes flashing with fury as he stared at me. But in the end, he didn’t dare lay a hand on me. He got out of the car, muttering into his phone. I could faintly hear a woman’s sharp, angry voice on the other end, cursing me for being a senile old fool. It was the imposter. Finally, she relented. Rick got back in the car, forcing the words through his clenched teeth. “Go back and get it.” The car, amidst a cacophony of angry horns, slowly turned around. I leaned back against the seat, heart pounding, limbs ice-cold, but my mind was crystal clear. It had worked. I had not only bought myself more time, but I had also confirmed their greatest weakness: they were terrified of being exposed. We arrived back at the building I had once called home. I looked up at the familiar window, no longer mine. But I knew, with a certainty that settled deep in my bones, that I would get back everything I had lost. A new, clearer plan was beginning to form.
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