I couldn’t afford to buy my daughter a brand-new talking doll for her birthday, so I found a second-hand one instead. But when the doll eerily said, “You promised to stay,” in my mother’s voice, it revealed a devastating family secret I was never meant to uncover.
Sitting at the kitchen table, I counted the small bills and coins from the savings tin. Each coin slipping through my fingers was a reminder of how tight things had been since David left. I had only $23.72—far from enough for the talking doll Clara had been asking for.
I stared at the money, feeling helpless. Seven-year-old dreams shouldn’t be this expensive. The worst part wasn’t the money itself; it was the thought of disappointing my daughter yet again.
Clara’s crayon drawing hung on the fridge, stick figures of us holding hands under a bright sky. Her birthday was just two days away. I couldn’t let her down this time.
Then I remembered the doll I’d seen at the second-hand shop. It wasn’t brand new, but it had a vintage charm and looked almost perfect. Hesitant but with no other options, I grabbed my coat and headed out.
As I walked, doubts crept in. What if the doll didn’t work? What if Clara knew it wasn’t the one she wanted? But I pushed the guilt aside.
The shop bell jingled as I stepped in. Among old furniture and outdated electronics, I found the doll. Her pink cheeks, pale blue eyes, and slightly frayed ribbon gave her an old-fashioned beauty. And she was a talking doll, just like Clara had wished for.
“How much for this one?” I asked the shopkeeper.
“Fifteen dollars,” he replied. “Old, but still good as new.”
It felt like fate. I paid and took the doll home, trying to ignore the growing unease inside me.
Clara’s birthday came quickly, and her eyes lit up when she unwrapped the doll.
“She’s perfect, Mom!” she squealed. “I’m going to call her Rosie!”
I smiled, relieved to see her so happy. But then, Clara pressed the button on Rosie’s back.
“You promised to stay,” the doll said, her voice filled with sorrow.
Clara blinked, confused. “She sounds like Grandma.”
My heart raced. My mother’s voice? I tried to laugh it off, even though panic was rising inside me.
“No, Mom,” Clara insisted, pressing the button again. “She really sounds like Grandma.”
“You promised to stay.”
It wasn’t just similar. It was my mother’s voice. How could this be?
Continue reading on next page…