Catch Me When I Fall

“Mom, I’m here!” I shout out as I close the door to my parents’ house behind me. We have family dinner together every Sunday, and tonight is no exception.

“In the kitchen,” my mom shouts back. I walk past the living room, exchanging a quick hello with my father who’s watching a ballgame while yelling at the TV when his team doesn’t make the right move.

“It smells great in here,” I say as I step into the kitchen.

My mom is by the stove, making her famous pot roast, and I give her a quick kiss on the cheek as I walk by to the sink, wash my hands and start getting the Sunday dinner plates from the cupboard to set the table.

This has been our routine for as long as I can remember.

We eat in the dining room that’s only used for Sundays, holidays and when guests are over.

Both my parents keep asking me questions about how work has been this past week and if I did anything special during the weekend.

I tell them about my week, knowing they love hearing everything in detail. I teach fourth grade at a medium-sized public school in one of the better school districts in LA.

Both Mom and Dad were skeptical the day I moved out to start my life as an adult, like they didn’t want their little girl to leave home, ever, but I had to.

I lived at home while I was in college, to save money, but at some point, I needed to leave the nest.

“This week, we started a genealogy project at school,” I say, while Dad spoons mashed potatoes onto his plate, then mine.

“Some of the kids were a little doubtful about the assignment, so I’m doing it with them.”

“What does that entail?” my mom asks excitedly.

“Well, while the kids are working on making their family tree with pictures of their relatives, I took a DNA test and submitted the results to a website to track my biological family history to show the kids what my ancestry is. I thought it could be fun to show them exactly where my genetic roots come from!” I say with a smile.

Instead of saying anything, my parents give each other a weird glance, a look I’ve never seen before.

“What? Did I do something wrong? Oh God, is this where the test comes back that we’re not related at all, and you admit that I’m adopted?” I say, as a joke. I don’t look like either of my parents, but I’ve never doubted that I am their daughter.

“Annabelle…,” my mom begins but is cut short when there’s a sudden pounding at the door.

“Police, open up!” a strong voice says firmly from the other side.

“Mom, what’s going on?” I ask, looking between my mom and dad, who just sit there, looking like they’ve seen a ghost.

A moment later, the door bursts open, and police officers come storming in.

“Mom!” I say again with a strong sense of urgency. Did my parents do something illegal?

“Mr. and Mrs. Ayers, you are under arrest for kidnapping,” a police officer says while getting my parents to stand up before they’re cuffed.

“Kidnapping?! This must be a mistake!” I say, wanting to know what is really going on here.

“Are you Annabelle Ayers?” a man in a different jacket asks me. I look at his chest and see the words FBI in big yellow letters staring me right in the face, almost shouting at me.

“Yes, I am. Please, what on earth is going on?” I ask desperately.

“Please, have a seat, and I’ll tell you,” the FBI agent says, and I sit back down at the table where our dinner remains unfinished, having absolutely no idea what’s in store for me.

My whole life has been one big lie. I used to feel so sure about who I was, but these past few months have shattered everything.

Nothing I thought I knew is true anymore, and now I feel completely lost.

Turns out, the parents who raised me aren’t my real parents. They’re criminals who’ve ruined my life.

I want to hate them so badly, but deep down—they still feel like my parents, and I still love them.

But I can’t have anything to do with them anymore. I just can’t.

I try to shake off the sadness as I pack the last suitcase into my car, ready to leave and start afresh somewhere new.

I sigh, sliding into the driver’s seat.

Being an elementary school teacher means I can pretty much work anywhere.

When I saw a job opening in Monterey, I jumped at the chance.

I even found the cutest little house to rent, fully furnished and with an ocean view, so I didn’t have to bring much with me. I sold almost everything I owned, except for my clothes and a few special keepsakes.

I want to start over completely and leave behind the nightmare my life has become these past months.

After a couple hours on the road, my car starts to ping, indicating that I’m running low on fuel.

I glance at the GPS and find a gas station just a few minutes away.

Pulling into the station, I park next to one of the pumps and step out, stretching my arms above my head to ease the stiffness from three hours of driving.

After filling up the tank, I head inside the small convenience store, grabbing a bottle of water and a sandwich before sitting outside in the sunshine to eat.

I tilt my head back, soaking in the warmth of the sun on my skin. I’m a California girl through and through, always loving the warm weather and endless sunny days.

Just another reason to escape LA and its smoggy skies.

Apparently, I wasn’t even born there, but I can’t remember living anywhere else.

Honestly, I can’t remember anything from before I was taken from my birth family, and all I ever had to go on were the stories my fake parents told me about my childhood.

Feeling anger bubble up inside me again, I toss my trash into the garbage and climb back into my car, slamming the door a little harder than necessary.

Taking a deep breath, I start the car again and pull back onto the road.

The rest of the drive passes smoothly, and by the time I cross the famous Bixby Bridge into Monterey, my mood has improved dramatically. I glance around as I enter the city, completely in awe of the charming houses and breathtaking views.

“Hi, you must be Miss Ayers,” a sweet, older woman greets me warmly as I step out of my car. She’s short and round, her dark gray hair pulled neatly into a bun.

Over her dress, she wears a green polka-dot apron, which she’s currently wiping her hands on. “Hello, I’m Annabelle, yes. It’s nice to meet you,” I say, extending my hand toward her.

She takes it, shaking my hand warmly. Her hands are rough, like she’s spent most of her life working outdoors, but it only adds to her charm—just like the weather-worn cottage.

“I’m Liz,” she says, smiling up at me. I stand pretty tall at five foot eight, but Liz can’t be more than five feet, making her look adorably tiny.

“Welcome to Monterey! I hope you’ll be happy here,” she says, beaming brightly.

“Thank you,” I reply, glancing up at the house again before looking back down at her. “I think I will be.”

“Well, as I mentioned in the email, the house is fully furnished with everything you’ll need—from furniture to towels and kitchenware—so just make yourself at home!

“My husband Harold and I are just down the road if you need anything,” she says, handing me the keys and pointing toward a small, dark wooden house almost completely hidden by trees.

“Thank you,” I say again, smiling gratefully as she waddles away, leaving me to settle in.

I find the door unlocked and step inside, setting my things down before heading back out for the rest. Once everything is safely inside, I slip off my shoes and wander around, taking it all in.

I explore every room before opening the French doors and stepping out onto the patio. It’s so much better than anywhere I’ve ever lived before, and I instantly fall in love with it.

I sink into one of the patio chairs, breathing deeply as I soak it all in. I already love it here, and I almost squeal out loud when I spot the adorable hammock hanging between two trees.

While I’m sitting out on the patio, soaking in the sunshine, I can’t help it when my thoughts drift back to that day. I close my eyes and let the memories flood my mind.

“Miss Ayers, I’m Agent Ericson with the FBI.” The agent sits down with me and talks in a trying-to-be-soothing voice.

He pulls out a photo and hands it to me. The picture is old and shows two little girls dressed up—one as a bumblebee, the other as a ladybug. The ladybug is clearly older than the bumblebee, and I can’t say I recognize her.

“Where did you get a photo of me?” I ask. My voice sounds hoarse, and my head is spinning. I’ve never seen this particular photo before, but it’s clearly me. And the bigger girl, she looks somewhat similar to me, but I have no idea who she is.

I’m staring at the picture, unable to properly focus on anything anymore. I look at the little bumblebee, knowing it’s me. I hear my mom shouting in the background, saying sorry over and over again.

“Miss Ayers, this is Riley Morgan and her older sister Rory. It was taken in 2000 when Riley and her sister were out trick-or-treating. Riley was kidnapped that night, never to be seen or heard from again for twenty-three years,” the agent says before taking a deep breath.

I shake my head, the dizziness growing stronger and stronger. “I don’t understand,” I croak out, my brain frantically trying to decipher what he’s saying while my body fights against how any of it can be true.

“Miss Ayers—Annabelle, we think this is you,” he says, pointing to the bumblebee, and I nod. Of course it’s me. It looks exactly like the slightly older childhood photos I’ve seen of myself.

I look up at Agent Ericson, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. He looks me right in the eye and lets out a compassionate sigh.

“We think you’re Riley.”