Page 66 of Buried Roots

I might love him—and it might be more than I’ve ever loved anyone, but knowing for sure seems impossible. Letting myselffeelit is impossible. I fight off tears as I stare at my trembling hands, trying to find the right words. But there aren’t any. When the silence becomes too much to take, I blurt, “We’ve only known each other for less than three weeks.”

“It’s not about time. It’s about the connection we have. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever had before. More than that, I want tokeephaving it… for the rest of my life.”

I know these beautiful things he’s saying should mean everything to me, but I stare in the distance as I feel myself shutting down. “Not everybody who loves each other ends up together.”

His eyes are wide, and his face is soft. “So, you do love me.”

Yes. The word’s right there, right on the tip of my tongue. But when I open my mouth, I say, “I don’t know.” I’m furious at myself, but it’s all too much. Owen doesn’t realize this, but Ineverthought I could feel this way or open myself up to someone like I have with him. I was never like this with Seth, which, looking back, was probably a big part of our problem. Owen’s made me more vulnerable than I could ever imagine, and for a fleeting moment, I could almost see forever with him. But life has taught me to know better.

Owen exhales as his eyes seem to shatter. “Fine, then. I’ll go.”

I swallow back the sob that’s prickling my throat, but I’m too angry to give in to it. God damn it! It’s my dead biological mother. My biological father, who clearly doesn’t care about me. It’s my adoptive parents who died. Living or dead, everyone leaves me or lets me down. “I can’t.” I ball my hand into a fist. “I can’t let myself trust you. Or anyone.”

He looks up in exasperation. “And there it is.” His forehead creases, and for the first time since I’ve known him, he clenches his jaw in bridled anguish.

“I’m sorry.” My voice is firm, but my limbs are collapsing. I can almost feel my heart shattering in my chest.

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmurs. “You’re going through so much right now, and, logically, I understand you need space. But the way I feel about you isn’t logical, and I can’t let myself get crushed.” His eyes grow distant. His face hardens. He drops his hands to his sides. “So, I’ll be here tomorrow to work. And that’s it.”

He doesn’t look back as he walks away; the rain rapping on the porch roof, in synchrony with the breaking of my heart.

What do we do when our buried roots grow and strangle us?

23

The Discovery

AfterOwenleaves,Ifumble to the mechanical room, glad it’s dry. I pull the box down from the shelf, desperate to distract myself from what just happened. Except once I get it on the floor, all I do is sit and stare, my eyes welling with tears. How did I get here?

I just broke up with a man I love with all my heart, and I’m such a mess, I can’t remember if I had the water lines marked.

But Isawthose flag markers. I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through my texts, checking to see if I missed any from Phil, like one saying how the utilities weren’t marked. Maybe he asked if they should proceed without them. But there’s no text from him other than the one he sent saying the job was finished. Maybe they aren’t as careful with that in Georgia?

Whatever. It doesn’t matter now. The water line’s fixed.

So, I move my focus to what’s inside that aging box. A single container that could’ve gotten overlooked if someone picked this house clean before I got here. I’m starting to wonder.

I gently tug the dusty cardboard flaps, my only remaining chance at clues until Roy can get the court order for my adoption records, which could take months. Inside, I see a photo album.

I lift it from the box and open the cover. The very first picture turns my arms to gooseflesh. It’s of Annie, and she’s in a hospital gown, her hair tousled, and her eyes tired, but happy. She’s wearing a hospital wristband and holding a newborn baby.

Annie had clearly just given birth.

I sit for a minute, my chest rising and falling. That’s me! Ithasto be me. I’m frantic as I flip through the pictures, one of Annie and a toddler who has red hair and hazel eyes… like me. The next one, this toddler is picking berries, the next, eating chocolate ice cream. The toddler grows into a girl,mebecause I recognize myself from the earliest photos my adoptive parents had. In the next one, I’m looking four or five, smiling as I ride a bike with handlebar ribbons, Annie hanging on to my seat.

These are my lost photos!

I frantically pull each picture out and flip it over, trying to see if there’s anything written on the back of them.

There isn’t. But Annie is my mother.

So I got adopted out, but why? Annie and I look so happy.

I keep digging, picking up a tiny hospital bracelet, bringing it to my eyes so I can read the faded print. With rapid breath, I read the inscription.Willow Eloise Murphy, born at 4:03 a.m. on September 7th, 1997 at Southern Atlanta Medical Center.

“That’s not my birthday,” I croak out, realizing that it probably is. The day I’ve celebrated my whole life, September 21st, is probably made up… or they made a mistake in my adoption papers.

Baby pictures of me and my hospital bracelet are sitting here. In an old box. At a farmhouse. In a tiny town in Georgia. “And my name was Willow Murphy,” I whisper.

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