I couldn’t afford a new talking doll for Clara’s birthday, so I opted for a second-hand one I found at a local shop. It looked almost perfect and was only fifteen dollars. Clara’s excitement when she unwrapped it was worth every penny.
“Her name is Rosie!” she squealed, setting the doll up for a tea party. But when Clara pressed the button, a chilling voice filled the room: “You promised to stay.”
“Sounds just like Grandma!” Clara giggled. My heart raced; it was unmistakably my mother’s voice. I laughed nervously, brushing it off as an old recording.
During dinner with Mom, Clara innocently asked her to say the phrase. Mom’s face went pale, and the laughter faded from the room. Something felt deeply wrong, but we kept pretending.
A few days later, Mom visited. The tension was thick as she spotted Rosie. When she pressed the button, the same haunting phrase echoed, and Mom’s composure shattered.
“It sounds like me because that is my voice,” she choked out. “This doll belonged to your sister.”
“Sister?” I echoed, stunned.
Tears streamed down Mom’s face as she explained that Jennifer, my sister, had died when she was just five. The recording was a desperate keepsake of a painful past.
As I stared at Rosie, the truth settled in—she was a symbol of buried grief, a reminder of secrets I never knew. The past had found me, despite our attempts to keep it hidden.
