“Where did you get that?”
“Answer me.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Sweetheart—”
“Is she my mother?”
My voice cracked.
“Is Eleanor Price my biological mother?”
My mother covered her mouth.
Then she began crying.
I stepped backward.
Twenty-six years of memories rushed through me.
Birthday parties.
School concerts.
Bedtime stories.
My mother holding me when my father died.
Had all of it been built around a lie?
“Please,” I whispered. “Just tell me.”
She looked at me through her tears.
“Yes.”
The word shattered something inside me.
I gripped the back of a chair.
“Then who are you?”
She stood slowly.
“The woman who raised you. The woman who loved you every day of your life.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because Eleanor begged me not to.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
My mother looked toward the window.
“Because your father wasn't who you thought he was.”
I shook my head.
