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I flipped through the pages, stunned by the level of detail they had poured into this fictitious "Apolonia." The paragraphs contained a biography written so convincingly, it felt as if this woman had truly lived a full life.
"Born in Katowice, Poland. Grew up in a working-class family. Her father, Adam Nowak, was a welder, and her mother, Jadwiga, was a homemaker. She graduated high school with honors and later enrolled in a vocational school where she studied homemaking and cooking. She moved to the United States five years ago in search of better opportunities. She met Marek Kowalski at a gathering of the Polish community, where he immediately won her heart."
– He won her heart? – I muttered sarcastically, feeling my now noticeably fuller lips twist in irritation. – What a load of romantic crap. What is this? A paperback romance novel?
On the next page was a photograph: a little girl, about eight years old, with my face—or at least the face I remembered—but dressed in a frilly gown with ruffles. The background was a suburban house in Katowice. The smile on her face mirrored mine from childhood, but her hair was long, tied back in a ponytail.
– What the hell?! – The words escaped my mouth before I could hold them back. I stared at the photo, feeling my face flush. The girl in the picture looked so real that for a moment, I was struck by a strange sense of déjà vu. This wasn’t me—I knew that. But her face—my childhood face—made it all the more unsettling.
I ran my fingers over the photo, as if trying to wipe away this fake imprint of the past. The paper was faded and slightly rough, like the kind you’d find in old photographs stored for decades in a box in the attic. The edges were a bit frayed, and faint scratches marred the surface. Even the tiny details, like the sunlight reflecting in the house’s window in the background, were flawless.
My fingers kept flipping the pages involuntarily, despite the growing annoyance. Each one revealed more details of this "Apolonia’s" life.
"From 2012 to 2018, worked as a housemaid for families in Warsaw. Main duties: cleaning, cooking, childcare. References from employers available upon request."
I froze, my eyes catching on the word "housemaid." The word itself, simple as it was, felt like a sentence. How could anyone build their life around cleaning up after others? Me, Mike O’Connor—a man who always did whatever he wanted—was now supposed to play the role of some Apolonia, whose career revolved around scrubbing floors and ironing shirts?
A shudder ran through me, but my fingers seemed to have a will of their own, turning the page.
"Personality: Introverted but polite. Modest, reserved, avoids conflicts, but can stand up for herself when needed. Known for being responsible and detail-oriented, gets along easily with employers, especially families with children. Enjoys order and adheres to strict principles in household management."
I let out a nervous laugh. "Modest, reserved?" That was so far from who I was that I nearly threw the folder against the wall.
"Interests: Cleaning, cooking, embroidery, caring for houseplants. Enjoys watching cooking shows on TV and jotting down new recipes. In her free time, she knits."
– Oh, give me a break, – I whispered, feeling the rage simmering inside me.
The next page listed her previous places of employment in excruciating detail. I was about to shut the folder when I suddenly pulled out a folded piece of paper tucked between the pages. It was a letter. The paper was yellowed with age, its edges slightly worn, and the front bore a neatly written address: "Apolonia Nowak, ul. Mickiewicza 23, Katowice."
I unfolded the letter and saw lines written in Polish:
"Droga Poleczka, pamiętaj, że zawsze będę z Tobą, nawet na odległość. Kocham Cię, babcia."
Reading the text, I realized I understood it perfectly without the slightest effort. The words formed their meaning in my head as if they had always been there.
"Dear Poleczka, remember that I will always be with you, even from a distance. I love you, Grandma."
I stared at the letter, unable to believe my eyes. The Polish language, which I had never learned in my life, suddenly felt so familiar that I didn’t even notice when I had started reading.
But when I tried to return to the English text in the folder, it suddenly seemed blurred, as if my brain was refusing to process it as my native language.
– What the… – I muttered, a shiver running through me. I placed the letter on the table as if it were poisonous.
Further details revealed that "Apolonia" had met Marek five years ago at the Polish community center. He was an active participant in local events, helping newcomers settle in. It was an almost perfect story—how they bonded during an Independence Day festival, how he asked her out…
– How sweet… – I hissed, feeling the anger and panic rising within me.
The next pages detailed their "family." Marek Kowalski—my "husband," 34 years old, a construction foreman. The photographs showed a stocky man with short dark hair, a light stubble, and a confident, hard look in his eyes. He looked like someone used to giving orders and caring little for anyone else’s opinions.
– Oh, for fuck’s sake… – I skimmed through the details: "Married to Apolonia since 2023. Their relationship is strong but without children due to financial difficulties. Marek takes care of his wife, though he can be hot-tempered at times."
"Hot-tempered," sure. Judging by his photo, his "temper" could easily turn dangerous.
– And I’m supposed to just accept all this? Screw that! – I pushed the folder away, feeling my anger boil over. But even in my fury, there was helplessness—I knew I couldn’t just snap my fingers and change anything.