She was a weird kid. She barely cried before opening her, sharp, grey, penetrating eyes.

"Get her away from me," I asked the midwife. The disgust coloured my voice. She gave me a confused look.

"Don't you want to hold your daughter?" the midwife asked. I looked at the newborn child.

"That is not my child. It's his," I said. The midwife looked at the little child that quietly observed every move she made.

First time I looked at the child, really looked at her, I realised I'd been wrong. She wasn't just his daughter. She was an exact copy.

Under a day old, even though it was hard to believe with the hardly hairy head, covered in black curls.

"She's pretty," he complimented. I turned to him.

"Never starts with a hello, does it?" I said with a sigh. The corner of his mouth moved slightly.

"I've never been one for simple," he replied, looking at the child with his head crooked to the side.

"Her name?" he asked emotionless. I looked at her.

"Cecilia," I decided. He wrinkled his nose.

"Horrible name," he informed me.

"Yes," I agreed. I looked at the girl who was now by then asleep. Her long eyelashes perfectly framed the closed eyes, I deeply hoped I wouldn't have to see again.

"It means blind," he continued calmly. The name didn't fit a girl with eyes as attentive as hers.

"What do you suggest?" I asked and turned to him yet again.

"Mackenzie," he suggested.

"Too long. She'll never learn how to say it or spell it," I pointed out.

"Macy," he corrected.

"Ugly." He smiled by the sound of my comment.

"Penrose," he then suggested. I shook my head.

"Call her what you will," he decided before turning around on his heels; "I want nothing to do with her."

"She's your child!" I replied hardly.

"I wanted none of this. She's a mistake."

"She's a baby," I corrected him.

"Not one I want," he informed me. I looked at the little being, calmly sleeping in the bed.

"I don't want her either," I whispered unsurely. He shrugged; "Then you shouldn't have done it." I looked at him.

"I never meant to hurt you," I told. He snickered without looking at me.

"Do what you want with her," he decided before finally leaving. I looked at the little child. A nurse appeared and caught sight of me.

"Have you picked a name?" she asked kindly. I nodded, even though I had no idea.

"Macy," I quickly decided; "Penrose!" I corrected.

"Macy Penrose," the nurse repeated with a nod; "Nice choice."

Shortly after Macy Penrose was written, only a space before where her last names stood.

"She's not normal," I told the doctor. Macy had been born over three years earlier, and from the very beginning it'd been clear that she didn't belong with me.

"What does that mean?" the doctor asked and leaned over the table. I shot a look at the girl sitting by the table with a book in her hand.

"She's reading," I whispered hoarsely to her. The doctor looked at Macy, who was running her page along the sentences in Winnie the Pooh with her chubby fingers.

"Some kids benefit more from education than others," the doctor calmly replied and turned back to me. I quickly shook my head.

"No, he haven't had any tutoring! She's self taught," I said with a shivering voice. The doctor looked at little Macy who clumsily flipped a page.

"That's impressive, if it's true," she calmly replied while observing Macy. She stood up from the chair and sat down in front of Macy.

"Hi Macy," she greeted kindly; "What are you reading?"

"Winnie the Pooh," she answered coldly.

"Yeah?" the doctor asked and looked above the book onto the page.

"Do you wanna read some for me?" she asked.

"No," Macy said, not bothering to give any further explanation.

"No?" the doctor asked confused.

"No," Macy repeated. The doctor looked at me before standing back up.

"It's a special girl you've got," she commented. I nodded.

"What do you suggest?" I asked worriedly. The doctor looked at little Macy again.

"What do you mean?" she asked, slightly confused.

"What am I to do with her?" I asked. The doctor sat back on her chair behind the table.

"Find a good school for her, there she'll have the opportunity to develop," she recommended.

I looked sadly at Macy.

I never did find a school to her.

I feared it'd encourage her too much, so instead I allowed her to spend her days at home. I placed a TV in her room, until I found out she was using it for watching documentaries - in Spanish.

When she was nine I came home to the sight of her sitting with Les Misérables in her lap. Her finger now longer traced the words as she read, actually, her eyes barely twitched. She looked at the page for about a minute before turning the page and repeating the procedure.

"What are you reading?" I asked concerned.

"Victor Hugo," she calmly replied and flipped another page.

"We don't have any french books. Where'd you get that?" I asked and looked at the for me unreadable words.

"Uncle gave it to me," she explained and turned yet another page. I pinched the bridge between my nose and my forehead with two fingers and sighed deeply.

Later the same day I called him.

"You gave her books?" I accused.

"Well of course," he simply replied.

"You know I don't like it when she reads!" I loudly complained.

"You can't deny her learning," he told me; "Sooner or later she'll figure out the truth." I let my free hand run through my filtered hair.

"I won't let that happen," I promised.

"Shouldn't you go to the hospital?" she asked me one day. She was 14 at that time.

"Why would I?" I asked her tiredly.

"Because of your disease," she replied and took another bite of her dinner. I felt the blood leave my head, leaving me pale.

"Who told you?" I asked anxiously. She shook her head.

"No one. You didn't think I'd figure it out," she stated.

"Macy," I said tiredly. She looked at me. The same way as her father used to.

"Stop it," I hissed. She looked at the plate in front of her.

"You've gotten worse," she mumbled. I looked at her.

"Don't lie."

"But mother-""I don't wanna hear it, Macy! Go to your room," I asked.

Macy stood up sudden and returned to her room.

The doorbell sounded, and I quickly got up. My house was small, and within 20 seconds I was in front of the white door. I could see his silhouette through the blurry window.

I opened the door.

"You could've announced your arrival," I complained. I looked at the street behind him where the long black car was placed.

"I saw no reason," he replied honestly and placed his umbrella on my coat stand; "Now, where is my niece?"

"She doesn't wanna see me," I replied coldly. He smiled confidently.

"You can rest assured, sister in law, I merely need a short chat with her," he promised. I rolled my eyes, but stepped aside to allow him to enter. With slow, certain steps he walked the stairs and entered Macy's room without knocking.

"Uncle!" I heard her exclaim joyfully.

"Penrose," he greeted. I slowly followed him up the stairs with soundless steps.

"What brought you here, Uncle?" she asked. I leaned against the wall next to the door so I could hear their conversation.

"I have a file for you to look at," he explained. I could hear him shuffling with papers behind the door.

Silence.

"Why are you showing me this, Uncle?" she asked. He didn't reply.

"I know she's sick," she replied shortly.

"How much time does she have left?" she asked quietly.

"Maybe a year. If she gets the right treatment," he added.

That was how I found out I was dying.

Macy's uncle ensured I got the very best treatment, and with some of the countries best doctors around me I lived to see Macy's 16th birthday. I gave her a card, which she read in the hospital room.

"Thank you," she replied shortly. I didn't reply. She placed the card on the table next to my bed.

"You're dying," she stated. I closed my eyes.

"Don't say such things," I asked. She looked at me with confusion.

"What happens when you die?" she then asked. I sighed.

"Your dad gets custody," I replied.

"Who is my father?" she asked. I shook my head.

"He doesn't want you," I told her; "But I don't know who else will take care of you."

"You don't want me either," She replied. I looked at her. I'd never told her that.

"Lack of eye contact,closed body language. You never mimic my actions. And I know it's not because of mirror neurons, I tested that when I was 11," she replied the question I hadn't asked.

"Where can I find him?" she asked unsurely.

"221B, Baker Street. You're looking for Sherlock Holmes.

A/N

Sooooo first chapteeeeer! What ya'll thiiiink?

Also my sincere apologies for the English, honestly it's my second language and bahhh I just suck at it and you'll just have to deal.

I am assuming you have temporarily forgiven me because of the lovely GIF above.

You're welcome.