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SOPHIA

I was seven years old when my mother taught me how to disappear.

I sat on the edge of my pink, sparkly queen-sized bed, its frills bouncing each time I moved. It was a bed made for fairy tales, but the lesson my mom was teaching me wasn’t part of any storybook.

“Always keep your passport in your purse, Sophia. It must stay up to date.” Her voice trembled slightly, but her dark eyes were firm.

“And cash, Sophia, always have cash on hand, at least five thousand dollars. Keep a packed suitcase, something light and easy to carry. Have alternate IDs on hand, driver’s license, name cards, everything. And finally, Mia Dolce , always, always be brave.”

I'm sure running away from her husband and the life she had been living for years wasn't something that was on her bucket list, but fate, that unpredictable bitch, had a way of screwing up even the best-laid plans.

The vanishing skill wasn't a skill she’d probably ever intended to pass on, but life has a way of pushing lessons onto us whether we’re ready for them or not.

The day had started like any other, with the morning sun spilling through the curtains of our Parisian hotel room, painting everything in a warm, golden light.

I had been excited because we were supposed to go see the Eiffel Tower that day, something I had been looking forward to since we arrived in France. It was a dream for any child—one of those magical landmarks you only ever see in books or on TV.

But there would be no trip to the Eiffel Tower that day.

Instead, after we left the hotel, my mother sat me down on the edge of a chair in a dingy little bread shop, her hands trembling slightly as she brushed a stray curl from my forehead. “Sophia,” she began, her voice soft but urgent, “we’re going to do something different today.”

I remember how I frowned, my young mind struggling to comprehend the shift in her tone. There was something in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before, a mixture of fear and resolve that made my chest tighten with a sense of foreboding.

“What about the Eiffel Tower?” I asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

She took a deep breath, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We’ll see it another time, sweetheart. Today, we have something important to do. We have to leave France.”

“Why aren’t we staying in France, Mama?” I asked, my voice small and unsure.

She didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she focused on the man seated at a corner table, who looked just as out of place as we did. His suit was sharp, his expression sharper. He wore dark sunglasses and seemed to be looking at us, but I couldn't be sure.

“Because, Mia Dolce ,” she finally said, crouching down to my level as she fished through an envelope, “we’re going to play a game.”

“A game?” I echoed, intrigued despite the fear gnawing at my insides.

“Yes, a game,” she said with a forced smile. “We’re going to pretend to be different people for a while. You’re going to be Sarah Lacey and I’m going to be Jennifer Lacey. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

I didn’t think it sounded fun at all. I liked my name, Sophia. I liked being who I was. But I nodded because I could see the plea in her eyes, the silent begging for me to just go along with things.

I nodded again, this time with more certainty. As long as I had her, nothing else mattered. She was my world, my anchor in the storm. I could pretend, for her.

As much as I wanted to be silent and go along with whatever scheme my mama had concocted, I needed answers. Even at seven, I could not stand the thought of being in the dark, on anything.

“What kind of game is this mama? Why are we playing it?”

“It’s the kind where we pretend to be different people,” she explained, her voice faltering slightly. “Just for a little while, until it’s safe.”

I remember how my small fingers twisted in my lap, trying to make sense of what she was telling me. “But why do we have to pretend?”

Her smile wavered, and for the first time, I saw tears welling up in her eyes.

It was the first time I’d seen my mother cry and it terrified me. She was always so strong, so unshakable. But in that moment, I could see the cracks in her armor.

“Because sometimes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “it’s the only way to protect the people we love.”

I didn’t fully understand what she meant, but I nodded anyway. If pretending meant keeping us safe, then I would do it. For her.

She reached out and gently squeezed my hands, her grip firm despite the tremor in her fingers. “You’re so brave, Sophia. So much braver than I ever was.”

I shook my head, not wanting to believe that my mother could ever be afraid of anything. “But you’re the bravest person I know, Mama.”

She let out a shaky laugh, brushing a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. “We all have to be brave sometimes, my love. Now, let’s get ready.”

She stood up and rifled quickly through our bags with a speed and efficiency that told me she had done this before—too many times, perhaps.

I watched in silence as she carefully refolded our clothes and tucked them away, reorganizing our already packed bag, her movements quick and practiced. It was as if she was racing against some invisible clock, trying to stay ahead of whatever was chasing us.

As she worked, she spoke in a low, urgent voice, explaining the rules of our game. “From now on, you’re not Sophia Agostini anymore,” she said, glancing over at me as she locked the suitcase. “You’re Sarah Lacey. Can you remember that?”

I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest. “Sarah Lacey,” I repeated, the name feeling strange and foreign on my tongue.

“And I’m your mother,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly, “Jennifer Lacey. We’re just two ordinary people from England, traveling through Europe.”

I swallowed hard, the enormity of what she was asking me to do starting to sink in. “But what about Papa?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

The mention of my father made her pause, her hands hesitating as she bent to pick up the bag. For a moment, I thought she might cry again, but she quickly blinked back the tears and forced another smile. “We won’t be seeing Papa anymore, sweetheart.”

“Why not?” I pressed, my confusion growing. I barely knew my father—he was always busy, always away on business. But he was still my father and the thought of never seeing him again filled me with a strange, hollow sadness.

“It’s complicated,” she said, her voice tight. “But it’s for the best.”

I didn’t understand, but I didn’t argue. I could see how much this was hurting her and I didn’t want to make it any harder.

Once the bags were organized, she took my hand and led me out onto the street, her grip so tight that it almost hurt. We walked through the bustling streets of Paris, the sound of laughter and conversation filling the air as tourists milled about, oblivious to the fear that was gnawing at my insides.

I kept glancing up at her, searching her face for any sign that this was just another one of our adventures, but all I saw was the tension in her jaw, the way her eyes darted around, as if she was expecting someone to leap out at us from the shadows.

We arrived at a small, unassuming café, where a man in a dark suit was waiting for us.

He looked ordinary enough, but there was something about him that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. Maybe it was the way his eyes never seemed to settle on one spot for long, or the way he kept glancing at the door as if he was expecting trouble.

My mother greeted him with a tight smile, her voice clipped as she exchanged a few words with him in Italian. I didn’t understand most of what they were saying, but I caught a few words here and there—enough to know that this man was helping us escape.

He handed her a small envelope and a package, nodding once before slipping away into the crowd without another word. My mother watched him go, her expression unreadable, before turning her attention back to me.

“Let’s go, Sarah,” she said, her voice firmer now.

I took her hand, letting her lead me out of the café and back onto the busy street. The sun was shining, but it felt cold—colder than it should have been. I shivered, clutching my mother’s hand as if it were the only thing keeping me anchored to the ground.

As we walked, she began talking to me about our new life in England, painting a picture of a world that seemed far removed from the one we were leaving behind.

“You’re going to love London,” she said, her voice lighter now, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as she was convincing me. “There are so many things to see—the Tower of London, Big Ben, the red double-decker buses…”

“And the queen!” I added, trying to match her enthusiasm, though my heart wasn’t in it.

“Yes, the queen,” she agreed, her smile a little more genuine this time. “We’re going to have so much fun, Sarah.”

But even as she spoke, I could see the worry etched into her features, the way her eyes kept flicking back over her shoulder as if she expected someone to be following us.

I tried to imagine what our new life would be like, but it was difficult. England was just a place on a map to me, a distant land that I’d only ever heard about in stories. But now, it was going to be my home. A place where I would have to forget about Sophia Agostini and become Sarah Lacey, a girl with a different name and a different life.

I clung to her hand as we made our way to the train station, my mind racing with questions I didn’t know how to ask. What were we running from? Why couldn’t we stay in France? Why couldn’t we go back to New York, to the life we’d always known?

But I didn’t ask any of those questions. I was too afraid of what the answers might be.

At the train station, she guided me to a quiet corner where we sat on a bench, waiting for our train. The envelope and package the man had given her lay on her lap and I watched as she slowly opened the envelope, revealing a set of passports and documents.

“Look,” she said, holding up one of the passports for me to see. “This is you now, Sarah.”

I took the passport from her, staring at the picture inside. It was me, but it wasn’t me. The name beside the photo read “Sarah Lacey” and for a moment, I felt like I was looking at a stranger.

“This is who you are now,” she said, her voice gentle but firm. “You need to remember that, no matter what happens.”

I nodded, clutching the passport tightly in my hands. “I will, Mama. I’ll remember.”

She smiled, but there was a sadness in her eyes that made my chest ache. “You’re such a good girl, Sophia. I’m so proud of you.”

“Sarah,” I corrected her, trying to embrace my new identity. “I’m Sarah now.”

Her smile widened and she brushed a kiss against my forehead. “Yes, Sarah. My brave, beautiful Sarah.”

We sat there in silence for a while, the noise of the bustling train station fading into the background as I tried to process everything that had happened.

My world had shifted on its axis and nothing felt real anymore. I was no longer Sophia Agostini, the daughter of a powerful man in New York. I was Sarah Lacey, a girl on the run with her mother, hiding from a past I didn’t fully understand.

The train arrived with a loud, screeching halt and my mother stood up, taking my hand as we walked towards it. I glanced back over my shoulder one last time, at the life we were leaving behind, and felt a pang of loss in my chest.

I didn’t know if I would ever see France again, or if I would ever understand why we had to leave.

But I knew one thing for certain—I had to be strong, for my mother’s sake. She was all I had now, and I couldn’t let her down.

We boarded the next train and found our seats quickly. As the train pulled away from the station, I pressed my face against the window, watching the city blur into the distance. My mother sat beside me, her hand resting on mine, her grip firm and steady.

“Remember, Sarah,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the rumble of the train. “This is just a game. We’re going to win it, you and me.”

I turned to look at her, searching her eyes for reassurance. “What happens when the game is over?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, her expression softening. “When it’s over, we’ll be safe. We’ll have a new life, a better life.”

I nodded, trying to believe her. But deep down, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

As the train carried us further away from Paris, from everything I had ever known, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine our new life in England. I pictured the red buses, the tall buildings, the parks and the people with accents that were different from ours. I imagined myself as Sarah Lacey, a girl with no past, only a future.

The apartment was quiet that night, save for the occasional hum of the city filtering through the window. I had just drifted into sleep when a loud, piercing scream jolted me awake.

My heart pounded in my chest as I scrambled out of bed, my small hands clutching my stuffed rabbit as I stumbled toward my mother’s room.

The door was ajar, and I peered inside to see her thrashing about in bed, her face contorted with terror. “He’s coming! He’s coming!” she cried, her voice high and frantic. The words made no sense to me, but the fear in her tone was palpable.

“Mama!” I called, stepping into the room. I tried to shake her awake, my tiny hands barely making an impact. “Mama, wake up!”

Her eyes flew open, and she looked at me with a mix of confusion and fear. She sat up abruptly, her breathing ragged. “Sophia? Sarah?” she stammered, her gaze darting around as if she was searching for something unseen.

“It’s all right, Mama,” I said, my voice trembling. I climbed onto the bed and hugged her tightly. “It was just a dream. It was just a bad dream.”

She took a deep breath, slowly coming back to the present. Her shaking hands brushed away the tears that had streaked her face. “I’m sorry, darling,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s okay,” I reassured her, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it myself. “You’re safe now.”

She nodded and held me close, her trembling subsiding as she calmed down. “Thank you, Sarah,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I woke you.”

Over the next few weeks, the nightmares became a recurring presence in our lives.

Each night, my mother would wake in terror and I would be there beside her, offering comfort and a semblance of safety. I never quite understood what haunted her, but I could see the toll it took on her. Her once-bright eyes were often shadowed with worry and the corners of her mouth were set in a permanent frown.

Despite the fear, life had to go on. My mother started working at a small but busy café in the heart of London. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep us afloat. The café was a quaint place with red and white checkered tablecloths and a chalkboard menu that advertised “tea and scones” and “full English breakfast” for a few pounds.

I began attending school at a local primary school. The accents and customs were different from what I was used to and it took me a while to adjust. One day, a group of children began teasing me about my American accent, calling me names and making fun of the way I spoke.

“Look at her! She’s a proper yank,” one of the kids sneered, his tone dripping with derision. Yank . It amused me more than insulted me, probably because I didn't know what it meant.

“Is she deaf too?”

Just then, a girl with a pixie cut and a mischievous sparkle in her eyes, stepped in front of me, glaring at the bullies. “Oi, leave her alone,” she said firmly, her London accent thick and unapologetic. “She’s new here. Give her a break. You fancy another broken nose, Tommy?”

The one who had shoved me, the one I assumed was Tommy, turned a concerning shade of purple and they bolted. Well, well.

I watched, wide-eyed, as the girl, Justine I think her name was, stood up to the bullies with a confidence I could only dream of. After they scurried off, she turned to me with a warm smile. “You all right?” she asked.

I nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude. “Don’t worry, they're just a bunch of wankers. My daddy says I shouldn't say that because it’s a bad word, but Uncle Sam calls everyone wankers. I reckon it’s maybe not so bad a word, do you think?”

“I don't know what it means,” I said softly. “I’m Sarah.”

“Nice to meet you, Sarah,” she said with a grin. “I’m Justine. Don’t worry ‘bout those muppets. They’ll get bored of picking on you soon.”

Justine and I became fast friends. She introduced me to her favorite hangouts—a tiny ice cream parlor that let you create new ice cream flavors and name them yourself, and an amusement park where most of the rides were broken.

We’d sit and talk about everything from school to our favorite cartoons. Through her friendship, I began to feel more at home in London.

And so, as London continued to reveal its wonders and challenges, my mother and I faced the hard times together, determined to carve out a place for ourselves in a city that was beginning to feel like home.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the game we were playing was more dangerous than my mother was letting on. And I couldn’t help but wonder—what would happen if we lost?

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