A few weeks later, I get a call from Mossley Care Clinic and they tell me they've got an opening, as they promised they would last we spoke. The lady on the other side of the line runs me through everything I will need for the full application, my secondary school records included. I haven't been to St. Margaret's in quite some time. I wasn't planning on going back there, ever. Not after having the worst secondary school experience in history. But now, I guess I have no choice. Just what I was hoping for.
The receptionist at St. Margaret's School is kind but distracted, rifling through papers as I sit across from her.
"You need a copy of your GCSE records, yes?" she says, typing something into the ancient desktop computer on her desk.
"That's right," I say.
She nods, humming to herself as she scrolls through the records. The office smells of stale coffee and old paper, the air warm from an overworked radiator.
"Ah! Here we go." She turns to the printer beside her, waiting for the sheets to appear.
I glance at the framed photograph on the wall - an old school picture, blurry from age. It must be at least 40 years old, rows of uniformed students staring blankly at the camera.
"There we are," the receptionist says, handing me the papers. "That should be everything you need."
I take them with a polite smile.
And then I shrug as I look at them.
The name at the top of the page isn't mine.
Hollie Harding.
My surname. My date of birth, but a few years apart.
"There must be a mistake," I say, my voice light but unsteady. "This isn't me."
The receptionist frowns, adjusting her glasses. "Are you sure?"
I let out a small laugh. "I think I'd know my own name."
She leans forward, glancing at the records again. "That's odd. Oh! She's listed as your sibling. I must've pulled the wrong file. Let me just - "
I barely hear the rest.
My heart pounds as she searches again, her fingers clicking against the keyboard.
"There we are," she says finally, handing me the right papers.
I barely register taking them. My head is full of static.
A sister.
Listed in the school system.
As if she was real.
As if she existed.
I murmur a quick thank you and leave, my hands gripping the papers too tightly.
-
Mum is making tea when I get home.
"Your interview is next week, isn't it?" she says, setting down two mugs. "I picked up some biscuits, the ones you like."
I don't answer. I'm still standing in the doorway, still holding the records in my trembling hands.
"Mum." My voice is small.
She looks up, smiling. "Yes, sweetheart?"
I walk to the table and place the papers down. "I went to St. Margaret's today."
She nods, unbothered, stirring her tea. "Did you get what you needed?"
"They gave me the wrong records at first."
"Did they?" She reaches for a biscuit, dipping it into her tea. "They always were a bit hopeless with paperwork."
I swallow hard. "They gave me Hollie's records."
Mum stills for a fraction of a second.
Then she lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Oh, Rosie." She reaches for my hand, pressing it warmly. "Not this again."
I pull away.
Her eyes flicker, only for a moment.
"She was in the system," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "Listed as my sister."
Mum exhales through her nose, setting her mug down with a quiet clink. "You've been under a lot of stress lately," she says gently. "This new job, worrying about the future - it's bound to take a toll on you."
"I'm not making this up."
"Of course, you're not," she soothes, tilting her head. "You believe what you're saying, and that's what matters. But Rosie - " She leans forward, her voice softer now. "You don't have a sister."
I grip the edge of the table. "Then why is she listed?"
Mum sighs, her expression tinged with sadness. "This isn't the first time, sweetheart."
My breath catches. "What?"
"You've done this before."
I blink. "No, I haven't."
She gives me a small, patient smile. "You have."
No.
No, I haven't.
I would remember.
"You get fixated on things sometimes," Mum continues, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my face. "You always have. It's nothing to be ashamed of. Your mind plays tricks on you. You overthink. You get anxious."
Her touch is warm. Familiar.
"I know you don't mean to upset me," she says, her voice full of love, of understanding. "But it's hard to hear you say these things, Rosie. It's hard to see you like this."
Shame creeps up my spine.
I don't want to upset her. I never do.
And she's right - I do overthink. I do get anxious.
Maybe -
Maybe there's an explanation. A clerical error. A glitch in the system.
Maybe I am just stressed.
Mum squeezes my hand. "You trust me, don't you?"
My throat is dry.
"Yes."
"Good girl." She strokes my cheek. "Let's forget all about this. You've got more important things to focus on."
She places a biscuit in my hand, smiling like she always does.
And I smile back.