Page 45 of Don't Trust Her

I wring my hands together. “I’m really adopted?”

“Yes. I’m sorry we never told you. We should have.”

“Obviously. Why?”

“After everything we went through with Michael, I couldn’t risk having another child like him. It took me a while to convince your dad to agree. That’s why we didn’t adopt until Michael was ten. Dad wasn’t on board at all, saying he would never raise some other man’s child.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. It took me years to convince him. A child is a child, regardless of genetics. Clearly, he eventually came around. And you never once doubted his love for you. You may as well have been his biological daughter. I knew he’d change his mind once he saw you.”

I lean back and stare at the cloudless sky. It’s a lot to take in. Still, it could explain my lookalike if I have a sister. I turn back to my mom. “What do you know about my birth family?”

She closes her eyes for a few moments before opening them. “Your mom was young and not ready for a family. She wanted you to have the best chance of a good life, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to provide that for you.”

“How did you and Dad end up adopting me?”

“Your birth mom chose us. She liked our file, and then when she met us, she said she felt an instant connection. She agreed to pick us before talking with the agency, which she wasn’t supposed to do, but she was so eager for us to take you that she didn’t want to risk us agreeing to another baby first.”

“She was pregnant when you met her?”

“About six months along, though I thought she looked ready to pop right then. Waiting those few months for your birth was torture. I was so worried she would change her mind—either she would find out about Michael and pick another couple or fall in love with you when you were born and not give you up. But she didn’t.”

Her words are like a slap to my face. “She didn’t have any love for me?”

“It wasn’t like that, honey. She ended up choosing not to see you because she thought it would hurt too much. All she wanted was to give you the best shot at having a nice life.”

That makes me feel a little better. “What else do you know about her? What’s her name? Did she have any other children?”

Mom leans over and squeezes my hand. “We never exchanged that information. She wanted to pick the parents, but she also wanted a closed adoption. We never contacted her after that initial meeting, and she never reached out to us.”

This is so much to take in.

“Do I look like her?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Youthink?”

“I met her one time over forty years ago. She had long, thick hair about the color of yours and big brown eyes. I really can’t remember the details, I’m sorry.”

My heart sinks.

“Are you okay? I know this is a shock.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“I know this can’t be easy, but—”

“Wait! If I was adopted, why do I look so much like Dad? Just the other day, one of his old coworkers commented on the uncanniness of it.”

“It’s a lucky coincidence. Nothing more.”

“A coincidence?”

“It happens. I know of other families where the adopted children look eerily like one of the parents. Remember the Clarks down the street? Their daughter was a spitting image of Leslie, and she was adopted. Nobody ever believed it when they heard that.”

“At least they told her she was adopted.”

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