She nodded.
At fifty-two, I learned that the story of my birth had been a lie.
“When?”
I wasn’t living with you before then.
“You were three.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We couldn’t have children. We wanted you so desperately.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“George thought telling you would confuse you.”
You were three.
“You were both teachers. You knew children could understand adoption.”
“We were afraid,” Mom whispered.
“Of what? That I’d stop loving you?”
“Claire…”
“You let me teach history while hiding my own.”
We wanted you.
“Please don’t say that.”
“Then tell me why Michael recognized me.”
His voice cracked. “I had a little sister.”
I couldn’t move.
“She was three when we were separated. I was seven.”
We were afraid.
“What happened?”
“Our birth family broke apart. We ended up in different homes. I knew her childhood nickname, but not the name she received afterward.”
