Write a story

My sister was called Heather. She only lived three years. I've never been told what really happened to her, only that she was taken away from us too early. I used to lie awake all night, terrified of someone coming in through the window, dragging me out of bed, over their shoulder, down a ladder, running across the back lawn, through a gap in the fence and into a van. Driven away forever.

It wasn't until I was about eight years old and settling into a new house (we'd moved four times already) that I came across a scrapbook of cuttings hidden underneath mom's bed. Even though I wasn't a good reader, always mixing up my letters and numbers, I managed to make some sense of the articles. Desperate to understand because I recognised my parents in the photos. Younger but sad. Dad's protective arm around his wife. Her hair a mess, crying. Asking for Heather to be returned.

Some days in the new house I thought I heard her calling out to me. Sometimes in the night I felt her sitting on my bed.