My appendix ruptured at 2 a.m., and I called my parents seventeen times before the world began to blur. My mother finally texted back: “Your sister’s baby shower is tomorrow. We can’t leave now.”

My mother found out about the DNA test two days later.

I knew because Richard called.

I almost did not answer.

But his name on the screen was a door I had not fully closed.

Gerald was in the garden, pulling weeds. I stood by the kitchen window and pressed accept.

“Hello?”

There was silence.

Then my father said, “Holly.”

His voice sounded older.

“Richard,” I said.

He inhaled sharply.

Not Dad.

He noticed.

“Your mother told me about the test.”

“Did she tell you the result?”

“Yes.”

Another silence.

Through the window, I watched Gerald kneel in the dirt, sunlight on his gray hair.

Richard cleared his throat.

“I didn’t know.”

I closed my eyes.

That was the closest he had come to an apology.

“I believe you.”

He exhaled.

“She lied to me too.”

“Yes.”

“But I raised you.”

I opened my eyes.

“No,” I said softly. “You were in the house while I grew up.”

He said nothing.

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Do you remember my college graduation?” I asked.

A pause. “Of course.”

“You left early because Claire had a headache.”

“She was unwell.”

“She was hungover.”

He said nothing.

“Do you remember when I was sixteen and I had pneumonia? You and Mom went to Hilton Head because the reservation was nonrefundable.”

“Holly—”