"Emma. The essay you wrote for the national college entrance exam. Write it again. Word for word. Exactly."
The color drained from her face. She stared at me like I'd lost my mind.
"Mom, what's gotten into you? Out of nowhere, you want me to rewrite my exam essay?"
"I'm a university professor now. You want me to sit here writing something that childish? People would laugh me out of the room."
Her fingers curled tight, but she didn't pick up the pen.
I let the smile come—cold and thin.
"You don't dare write it? That's what I thought."
"If you can't reproduce it, then I refuse to believe you're my daughter."
She bit her lip, hesitating for a long time. Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke.
Emma let out a sigh. "Mom, I'm pregnant. Why are you putting me through this?"
"The exam was ten years ago. How could I possibly still remember it?"
I smiled coldly.
"Anyone else might forget. But you're Emma Sullivan. My daughter was born gifted. Photographic memory."
"Emma, if you're afraid to write it, that tells me everything."
She looked at me again, twice, and sighed.
After a long pause she picked up the pen, lowered her head, and began to write—stroke by careful stroke, achingly slow.