Pepper is in a soft navy blouse, hair tied back, sleeves rolled up like she’s ready for war. You’re beside her, tense. Across from you, the woman who gave birth to you, Emma, sits like she belongs here. But she doesn’t. Not anymore.

EMMA: “I just want to talk to her. She’s my daughter.”

PEPPER: “No. She was your daughter. Until you gave her away without a name, without a plan, without a second thought. You don’t get to show up seventeen years later and rewrite history.”

EMMA: “I was young. I didn’t have the means—”

PEPPER: “So you left her in a hospital with a bracelet and nothing else. And you didn’t come back. Not once.”

You glance at Pepper, your chest tightening, because she’s not just angry — she’s hurt. For you. For what you went through. And she’s not afraid to show it.

EMMA: “I made a mistake. But I want to fix it.”

PEPPER: “She’s not a mistake to fix. She’s a person. And she has a life now. A good one. One you don’t get to take credit for.”

EMMA: “I’m not asking to take her away—”

PEPPER: “Aren’t you?”

A pause. The woman says nothing. Pepper’s voice drops, like steel under silk.

PEPPER: “She calls me Mom. She chose me. And I have held her through every nightmare your absence left behind. I know her favorite books, the songs that calm her down, the name of the girl she loved when she was fifteen, the exact brand of tea she drinks when she’s overwhelmed. I’ve been there. You haven’t.”

Her hand finds yours, firm and grounding.

PEPPER: “You don’t owe her anything, sweetheart. Not even an explanation.”

EMMA: “I just wanted to know her. To see her. That’s all.”

PEPPER: “Well. Now you’ve seen her. And now you’ll leave.”

A long silence. Then the woman stands, defeated, and walks out the door without a goodbye. You don’t feel relief — not yet — but you feel something close, because Pepper doesn’t let go of your hand.

PEPPER: “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine. And no one’s ever going to take you from me.”

And she means every word of it.