“He did.”
“No.”
“He wouldn't lie to you.”
“I thought that too.”
She backed away.
“Who is she?”
Catherine cried.
“My daughter was the woman who gave birth to you.”
Emily stared.
Then laughed once.
“That's insane.”
“Yes.”
“Is this some inheritance scam?”
“No.”
“Did Dad know her?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“DNA?”
Catherine pushed the report toward her.
Emily didn't touch it.
“Rebecca is my mother?”
I swallowed.
“Biologically.”
Emily looked at me.
“And you?”
There are questions mothers fear without knowing they fear them.
I moved toward her.
She stepped back.
That hurt.
I stopped.
“I am your mother.”
Her face crumpled.
“But I didn't give birth to you.”
“No.”
“And Dad wasn't my biological father?”
“No.”
She covered her mouth.
“Then who am I?”
I wanted to say:
You're Emily.
I stopped.
Too simple.
Too fast.
Instead:
“I don't know what parts of this you're going to care about yet.”
