Marcus and his ex-wife had adopted her as a baby. Her biological mother had left her at the hospital the day she was born.
Every time I heard that story, it reopened something deep inside me.
From the first day I met Emily, I felt an unexpected pull toward her. I told myself it was simply compassion—because I knew what it meant to grow up with unanswered questions about where you came from.
She was the exact age my daughter would have been.
So I gave Emily everything I had. I tried to pour fifteen years of saved-up love into being the best stepmother I could be.
I thought that was the reason I felt so connected to her.
I had no idea how close to the truth that feeling really was.
About a week ago, Emily came home from school with a DNA testing kit from a biology project. She placed it on the dinner table with the excited energy only teenagers have.
“It’s not like I feel less loved or anything,” she said with a grin, looking at Marcus and then at me. “But this could be fun. And maybe someday it’ll even help me find my biological parents.”
Her tone was casual, the way she’d learned to talk about being adopted.
“Sure, sweetheart,” I said, pretending it didn’t affect me.