They named her Lily at the hospital. She came into the world without parents or family, just a tiny newborn wrapped in a pink blanket, left in the nursery of St. Agnes Hospital.
There was no middle name or last name, just a simple "Lily." From her first breath, life was shaped by strangers, nurses who took turns holding her, caretakers who placed her in the crib at the orphanage, and volunteers who changed her diapers and rocked her to sleep.
Her start was different from most, yet somehow, Lily adapted to her quiet existence in the only home she knew.
The first few years at the orphanage were marked by routine and simplicity.
The other kids were just like her, little lives without families, each with life in their own small worlds. Lily became one of the favorites among the staff, a quiet, observant child who rarely fussed.
She'd watch the world around her with large, wondering eyes, taking in the faces, the laughter, the words. Even as a toddler, she seemed to absorb everything, learning early to depend on herself.
When she turned four, things began to change. People came and went from the orphanage, some taking children with them, others simply looking.
Among them were Dan and Alice Turner, an older couple who visited frequently, never with children but always with an air of polite interest.
They were both quiet, and Lily was drawn to Alice's gentle voice and Dan's reassuring nods. During their visits, they'd occasionally talk to her, asking questions about her favorite toys, what she liked to eat, if she knew her colors and numbers.
The staff at the orphanage watched hopefully, sensing that Dan and Alice might be considering adoption.
Finally, after weeks of visits, the day arrived. The paperwork was completed, and Lily was officially theirs.
On that overcast afternoon, they took her from the only place she'd known as home, buckling her into the backseat of their sedan and driving her to their house on a quiet street.
She was quiet the entire ride, taking in the new world outside the window with wide, observant eyes.
Dan and Alice spoke little, exchanging only brief words as the car moved along the unfamiliar roads.
The house itself was modest, a tired two-story with chipped paint and a porch that creaked under their footsteps.
But inside, Lily was greeted by a room all her ow a small, yellow room with a bed, a dresser, and a few carefully chosen toys.
Alice showed her each corner, her voice soft and calm as she explained that this was now Lily's new home.
She tucked Lily in that first night, reading a story from an old picture book about a little girl and a butterfly.
Dan came by to say goodnight, offering her a small, almost hesitant smile.
In those early days, there was something close to warmth. Alice would take her to the park on weekends, letting her run and play, her laughter filling the air as she chased after butterflies or rolled in the grass.
Dan would come home from work and sometimes ruffle her hair, showing her things like how to water the plants or feed the stray cat that occasionally visited their yard.
Lily began to trust them, to feel that maybe this was what family was supposed to be.
But as the months went by, that sense of family began to fade.
Small changes crept into their lives, changes that Lily couldn't understand. The once-frequent park trips became rare, replaced by Alice's distant stares and sharp words.
She grew impatient, snapping at Lily over the smallest things, a toy left out, a glass of water spilled on the table, a question asked one too many times.
The house began to fill with tension, the warmth replaced by something colder, something Lily couldn't name but felt deeply.
Dan changed too. He started coming home later, his face lined with frustration, his patience shorter.
He didn't ruffle her hair anymore or ask about her day. Instead, he'd barely acknowledge her, his eyes tired, his words clipped.
When he did notice her, it was usually to point out something she'd done wrong, sending her to her room or scolding her with a look that made her feel small and invisible.
Lily learned to walk tightly, to move through the house without drawing attention.
She noticed their moods, became good at reading the tension in the air.
If Alice was quiet, Lily would stay in her room, playing quietly by herself.
If Dan came home angry, she'd hide in a corner, clutching her stuffed bear, waiting until the silence returned.