After several medical tests had been administered, I was deemed healthy enough to leave the hospital. The woman claiming to be my mother took me home. The doctor said I had amnesia from hitting my head, but that my memory should return. She would not listen to me when I tried to tell her that I do not belong here, that I have a name already, and that I have a father. She did not listen. Apparently, they believed my memories were fake. Noelle reads a lot, so they thought my memories were those of one of her favorite book characters, but I should be "fixed" in no time. My plan was to remain here until I figured out what on earth had happened. My mother seemed nice enough, and truly worried for me. Her house was very odd though. It was small, with sleek white walls and an odd kitchen. There were metal machines everywhere in the kitchen, and it was very messy. She explained she was a baker, so she tested ideas for pastries in her home kitchen. My room was also small, with a plaid comforter on the bed, something called "posters" hanging on the walls, and a crowded bookshelf and desk. It was cozy, like the rest of the house. It reminded me of the places I lived before Papa's paintings became famous. I liked those places, despite the leaky roofs and cold drafts. This place was warm and dry, however, warmer even than my house back home. She also gave me a small, rectangular device called a "phone". I was almost positive it was magical. When I pressed a button on the side, a picture popped up, along with the time and date. Then, if I pressed the button again, numbers would show up which I could tap to put in a "code" and it would open to another picture. This picture had tiny squares over it. These squares all do something, though I don't know what yet. I can call, text, play games, check the weather, take pics and google. I had no idea what any of these words meant or how to do this . My "mother" promised she'd teach me. She also told me to call her "mom" and insists on calling me Noelle. ​​I've grown so tired of reminding her that Noelle is not my name that I have taken to calling her Mother instead of Mom like she wants me to. If she would not listen to me, I would not listen to her.

I miss Papa terribly. I have never been away from him before. He refused to send me to finishing school, despite Stepmother's wishes, and instead hired private tutors for me. I was beginning to wonder if I should just give in and act how "Mom" wants me to. It would be easier than fighting. I decided to try it today. "Mother" had been awfully nice to me: making me food, asking to spend time with me, and always asking how I felt. The food was delicious, especially the pastries. So far, I have tried a croissant, cookies, and something called a blondie–which was my favorite. It was sweet and soft and gooey with chocolate and caramel. I liked Noelle's clothes too. They were far more comfortable than mine. I could wear pants and shirts, some of which were fuzzy and warm. I also discovered something called sweatshirts, which were large oversized shirts with a hood. They were my favorite thing ever. My "mother" showed me I had quite the stash of them in my closet, in all colors and fabrics. Today, she invited me to join her at her bakery, Sweets and Treats. The doctor said I could take a few days off before starting school again, whatever that means. I wondered if I would have tutors or be sent to a boarding school. Perhaps this was Stepmother's idea of punishment for trying to fake sickness, but I knew Papa would never agree to this. I honestly had no idea what was going on, especially with the incredible machines and everyone insisting the year was 2020. I was planning on finding out, however. Maybe leaving the house would help with my research. My "mother" owned a car, which was like a carriage without horses. It was powered by something called "gas". I got to sit in the front, and apparently, Noelle knew how to drive–she was just a few months away from acquiring something called a license. I clutched the edge of the seat as Mom zoomed down the road. It seemed everyone here owned cars; I haven't seen a single horse nor carriage. The bakery was a small building made of bricks with large windows. The windows had cakes and pastries displayed, along with a tower of macarons. Inside, the walls were painted in swirls of cream and peach, delicate pink curtains pulled back to let the sunlight in. The floor was checkered black and white. There was a glass counter with more pastries displayed, and there were shelves behind it with cakes. There were also little metal tables and chairs, delicate and curved. I sat down in a corner with a book and began to read. The book was wonderful, about a boy who discovered he was a wizard and goes to a school in a castle called Hogwarts. I felt a bit like him, taken from a normal world to a magical one. There were some words I didn't understand, such as telephone, computer, and television. I finished the book in one sitting. I decided I must get the next book as soon as possible. I had seen that on the bookshelf in my room, there were multiple books in the series. Having nothing else to do, I went to Mom and asked if I could help. She looked taken aback for a moment.

"I thought you didn't like baking very much," she said.

"No, I like baking. I find it relaxing. The precise mixture of ingredients that can create something delicious. It's wonderful," I responded, miffed that she turned down my help.

"Um, okay," she said, looking around. "Can you knead that gingerbread dough? There are aprons in the back." She smiled warmly at me and I brightened.

I found an apron with little Christmas trees on it and began kneading the dough and rolling it flat to be cut into shapes. It was slow, methodical work, and I soon fell into a soothing rhythm. Knead the dough, sprinkle flour, roll it out flat, move to the tray.

Knead, flour, roll, tray.

Knead, flour, roll, tray.

Knead, flour, roll, tray.

Knead, flour, roll, tray.

Knead, flour, roll, tray.

As I set down the final batch of dough, I realized something.

I like it here.