17 days, four hours and 13 minutes have passed since I realised she was missing. “I promise you that we are doing everything we can.” said the police officer who had been at my door almost every day since ‘it’ happened. ‘Everything’ isn’t enough. I never thought I’d be someone who would give up hope, but once your 4 year old has been missing for almost three weeks in London it’s difficult for any other thoughts to occupy your mind.

I stared out the kitchen window into the grey skies which were looming over the city, ignoring the 50th phone call of the day from some family member who clearly doesn’t understand what this feels like. I’m cold and numb and I just don’t understand anything that’s going on.

The kitchen door opens and I assume it’s just another officer who had been having a look outside and I was ready to further explain how I had nothing to do with her disappearance, but I look to the door and see a small child, wearing my daughter’s clothes but with an unrecognisable face. Everyone in the room stops still. My coffee mug falls off the table and breaks the few seconds of silence that have elapsed, then the child speaks. “Mummy I’m home, I’m so sorry.”

That’s not my daughter.

“That’s not my daughter. Who are you? Why have you got her clothes?”

The officer looks between us both and looks down at the documents in her hand which contain my daughter’s photo. There is an obvious look of confusion on her face.

“Are... are you sure?”

“I’m sure. What’s going on. Where did she come from?”

“Mummy it’s me!” the girl starts to cry and runs toward me. I comfort her because this small child is distressed but this small child is not mine.

“Ma’am, I’m not sure what you-“

SCREECH

All the glass in the room shatters. The child starts to shake and it’s features start moving around on its face slightly, as if beginning a transformation. The face changes to one more similar to my daughter, but not quite.

“Is this better? Am I her now?”

I can’t move. I can’t look away. It’s too late.