We both cried.
Not gracefully.
Not quietly.
We cried for every birthday we’d missed.
Every bedtime story.
Every scraped knee.
Every graduation.
Every ordinary Tuesday that should have belonged to us.
I felt her fingers clutch the back of my sweater.
Then she whispered the words that broke whatever remained of my old life.
“I’ve wanted to meet you since I was fourteen.”
I held her tighter.
“I’m here.”
She began crying harder.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
I shook my head.
“No.
No, you don’t apologize for this.”
For a long time, neither of us moved.
When we finally sat down, Vanessa told me everything.
Her adoptive parents, Thomas and Lillian Avery, had lived in the northern part of the state.
They were good people.
They’d wanted children for years.
When a private adoption agency offered them the opportunity to adopt a premature baby who had recovered unexpectedly well, they believed it was an answer to their prayers.
