My adoptive mother always treated my brother and me like a burden, but I still showed up at her house with birthday flowers. Then I heard her laughing in the kitchen and saying she’d fooled us for 20 years, and I knew I wasn’t the same person who had walked in.The road to Clara’s house felt longer than I remembered, the bouquet of white lilies resting on the passenger seat like a quiet apology. I gripped the steering wheel and tried to picture her face softening when she opened the door, even though 20 years of memory told me it probably wouldn’t.
Still, I drove on.
We were three years old when Clara and Josh took us in.
Noah had laughed when I told him my plan that morning.
“You’re really going over there? On her birthday?”
“She’s still our mother, Noah.”
“She’s the woman who adopted us, Eric. There’s a difference.”
I didn’t argue. My brother wasn’t wrong.
We were three years old when Clara and Josh took us in. They told us our biological mother had abandoned us and never looked back. For years, that sentence lived inside my chest like a small, cold stone.
“You should be grateful we even took you in!”
Josh tried to soften it. He sat in the front row at every school play, clapping louder than anyone else. He filled our room with toy trucks and bought us matching bikes one Christmas.
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