Rebecca’s eyes moved toward her.

“Except the truth.”

Mom pressed her lips together.

I looked directly at her.

“When did you decide to tell me Rebecca was de:ad?”

“We didn’t.”

“You told me my biological mother had d!ed.”

“We said she was gone.”

“When I was twelve, I asked if she could ever find me. You said, ‘Dead people don’t knock on doors.’”

Mom shut her eyes.

Apparently, she remembered saying it.

Claire whispered, “Jesus.”

Dad turned to face me.

“Emily, whatever happened back then, we love you.”

I believed him.

That was another uncomfortable truth.

People could love you and still try to control your choices.

People could feed you, protect you, pay your tuition, stay beside your bed when you had pneumonia, and still build part of your life around a lie.

Love did not erase what they had done.

“I believe you love me,” I said.

Dad looked relieved far too quickly.

“But I don’t trust you.”

His relief disappeared.

Mom sat down.

For the first time since she entered the room, she looked old.

Not fragile.

Simply exhausted.

“What happens now?” Claire asked.

Rebecca looked at me rather than answering.

That mattered.

She was the only person in the room who was not trying to decide my future for me.

“I’m going home with Lily tomorrow,” I said.