I shook my head.
"I don't know how."
Rachel looked at me.
"Start with what you know. Be clear about what is still uncertain."
I stared at my hands.
"She's going to think I don't want her."
"Do you?"
I looked up immediately.
"Of course I want her."
My voice broke.
"She's my daughter."
Rachel nodded.
"Then tell her that."
I thought about Emily at five, running toward me after her first day of school.
Emily at thirteen, crying because her best friend moved away.
Emily at eighteen, holding her acceptance letter and screaming with happiness.
None of those memories depended on a birth certificate.
But another woman had missed all of them.
And I couldn't stop thinking about that.
***
Emily came to Rachel's office the following afternoon.
She arrived wearing jeans and the green sweater I'd knitted for her last Christmas.
When she saw my face, her smile disappeared.
