Page 26 of Edging Obsession

I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Uh, I woke about five minutes before you arrived, so I had to get cleaned up.”

She gives my face a once over and kisses my temple. “It’s afternoon. Are you feeling okay?”

My head rests on her shoulder. “Yes. Miles and I were up late last night. That’s all.”

Miles walks in, says hello to my parents, and takes the large leather chair. “Anna’s making lunch. It’ll be ready in a half hour.”

Mom says, “Miles, you don’t have to feed us every time we come over.”

“I know, but Anna prepares enough food to feed the neighborhood.”

My mom pulls me closer to her, resting her cheek on top of my head. “Well, thank you.”

Dad is quiet, watching the interaction, playing with the laces on his gym shoes. He has dark crescents under his eyes, and they appear droopy. His attention is on the fireplace, lost in thought.

“Hey Dad. Are you with us?”

His body jolts, sitting taller, and he clears his throat. “Yeah, Jules.”

Mom runs her fingers through my hair. “He has—we have a lot on our minds. We want to talk to you about something.”

I sit up, searching their faces for a sign of what they’re worried about. “What’s wrong?”

Dad shakes his head. “Nothing, sweetheart. It’s just an uncomfortable subject and we don’t want anyone’s feelings to get hurt.”

“Oookay.”

Mom cups my hand between hers. “Because we don’t understand how this could have happened, how you aren’t our biological daughter. We did some digging.” She waits for a reaction from me, so I tip my chin, indicating for her to continue. “We contacted the hospital where you were born and…well, to make a long story short, you and…our biological daughter were switched.”

“What? How does this happen in today’s times?”

She kisses my knuckles. “I don’t know, honey.”

I shuffle from shock and being upset to curiosity. “Do you know who has your daughter?”

Dad glances at Mom before saying, “Yes. It turns out your biological mother is German. She had been in the States on vacation when she went into labor.”

The couch inhales my body from the release of anticipation. “What do you mean in the States? Do you mean she’sactuallya German citizen?”

From my peripheral, I notice Miles flinch at my last question. My gaze turns to him, yet he isn’t meeting mine. He regards the fire as it licks the logs devoured by heat, and for a moment, I think about him licking and devouring me. Miles shifts, adjusts his black V-neck sweater, and breaks my sick reflection from earlier. Sick from thinking about such a thing at a time like this. I lean my head to the side, watching Miles type on his phone, mutter under his breath, and glance up at us. When he catches me studying him, his eyes lock on mine, and his face becomes rigid.

Does he know something about it?

Dad interrupts the diversion and says, “Yes, she’s a German citizen. Unfortunately, we don’t know where she lives. The hospital only had her name. She must have given false information about her address, among other things.”

Both of my parents seem to have aged overnight. Their contorted facial expressions can be interpreted as frustration by not having the answers or torn about wanting to find their biological daughter. I love them. Even when difficulty grips us, they’ve not once wavered from loving and supporting me. But I can’t squash my growing interest in finding my birth parents. I mean, German? It’s so exotic. I haven’t traveled, so to learn my parents are from another country is thrilling. And I’d like to see who I resemble. Do I have my mom’s hair color? Is my biological father sweet like my dad? Do either suffer from bipolar?

These questions encourage me to ask, “Would you like to find your daughter?”

My head moves from Mom to Dad. They look at each other, then me, and acknowledge that they would. They’re wounded by their needs, and I don’t want them to feel this way.

I take Mom’s hand to my lips and kiss it. “There’s nothing to be sad about. I understand your wish to find your biological daughter. It’s got to be tough finding out someone else has been raising her. To wonder if she’s been happy and taken care of.” Mom sobs into her hand. My arm snakes around her back, pulling her closer to me. “Please don’t cry, Mom.”

Dad joins us on the couch, doing the same to me. We’re in a group hug, tears dripping onto our laps, silence consoling guilt. We continue to hug, kiss each other’s cheeks, smile, and embrace the moment.

It’s broken when Miles says, “I can help.”

We stop what we’re doing, and all turn our attention to him.

---