Page 37 of The Sweet Spot

“Take your time,” she pleads. “There’s no rush.”

“Traffic’s light. But I’ll be careful.”

“All right. I’ll let you go, then. I love—”

And then it happens. The feeling I’ve been waiting for, that it’s time to tell her everything. “Wait! I have to tell you something.”

She pauses for a beat, probably waiting for me to go on. “Okay, what?”

I let out a long breath, my brain all scrambled the way it gets whenever I think about Arlo. “I think I found my father.”

* **

Mom sets an ornate tray with two steaming mugs of tea, two spoons, and a dish of sugar cubes onto the coffee table. “Here you go. It’s cinnamon.”

“Thanks.” Leaning forward, I take one of the mugs.

“I hope you like sugar cubes,” she says, eyes closed as she sips her tea. “I found them at the farmers’ market. Couldn’t resist.”

Wrapping my cold hands against the warmth of the mug, I take a small sip and lean back into the couch. We sit quietly for a minute. A long minute. When I told Mom about Arlo earlier on the phone, she told me, very calmly, to save it until I got home. I couldn’t tell if she was livid or just really zen.

But now I feel the weight of her stare, and when I peek over, she’s watching me. “Go on,” she says, as if moments, and not hours, have passed since I dropped my bomb.

So, I do. I tell her all about sending my sample into Kith&Kin.com and about Arlo Janvier’s first message. I tell her about the moment we decided to leave the platform and move to personal emails, and all of the things that we’ve learned about each other over the past few months. When I get to Melvin and Pamplemousse, her calm exterior crumples and she puts her tea down.

“Mom?”

“Months, Wren? Really? You’ve been doing this behind my back for months?”

“You make it sound like we’re having an illicit affair,” I mutter, chewing on my bottom lip.

“You might as well be!” she cries, holding a jeweled throw pillow to her middle.

“That’s not fair,” I say, although maybe it is. “I didn’t tell you because I knew you’d react like this.”

“Can you blame me? I never, ever thought I’d have to deal with this,” she says. “It’s not like it was an open adoption, where there was always a possibility you’d one day connect with your birth parents, Wren. I did it this way for a reason. Kith and Kin? Really?”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, tears filling my eyes. I don’t know what else to say. “I didn’t join to find a dad; I just wanted to know who I was.”

“You know who you are,” she says, squeezing my knee. “You’re mine. Gramma Kate’s. You’re an Angelos.”

She’s right, of course. But she’s wrong, too. “I’m not just an Angelos, Mom. There are things about me that are different from you and Gramma Kate. Maybe they’re from Arlo, maybe not, but it’s my right to know.”

“I guess I just… I didn’t realize you wanted to know.”

“I didn’t either. Not until he contacted me.” But a tiny voice deep inside wonders if this is true. What was I expecting, submitting my DNA to a site like that? Every sort of family member but a father? Maybe.

“I guess meeting up is the next step,” she murmurs, drawing her finger around the rim of her cup. “Right?”

“He’d like to meet me, yes.” He wants to meet the both of us, but I’ll tell her that later.

“Not for Christmas, I hope. Too soon.” She takes a huge gulp of tea and winces. “Sorry; that sounds awful. I know this is important to you.”

“And I know it’s weird for you.” I drop another sugar cube into my tea, watching as it dissolves. “I get it.”

“I love you, little bird. And I’m glad you told me.” My mother sits up, tucking me into her side. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

And I realize I’m not the only one who could get hurt here. Having Arlo in the picture opens her up to the possibility of pain and disappointment, too. But I push that aside. Ignore it. I close my eyes and lean in, luxuriating in the familiarity of her mom smell, and whisper, “I think it’ll be okay.”

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