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.”

Richard asked permission before reading it.

Claire read it over two weeks and sent me a message afterward.

I hated parts of this because I recognized myself. I’m sorry I helped hurt you. I’m trying not to become Mom. Noah says hi. Well, he drooled, but I think it meant hi.

I laughed until I cried.

My mother heard about the manuscript through a cousin and sent one final letter.

This one was not handwritten.

It came from her attorney.

A warning.

Publication would result in legal action.

Anika read it and smiled.

“Truth is a defense,” she said. “Documentation is a blessing.”

I did not publish the book immediately.

I did not need the world to know yet.

It was enough that I had written it.

It was enough that my story existed somewhere outside my body.

Then, in October, Gerald gave me a folder.

We were sitting on my balcony, drinking tea while the basil plant fought bravely against the cooling air.

“What is this?” I asked.

He suddenly looked nervous.

Gerald Maize could face lawyers, hospitals, and Eleanor Crawford without blinking, but feelings still made him look like a man defusing a bomb.

“I spoke to Anika.”

“About what?”

“Adult adoption.”

I stared at him.

The word moved through me slowly.

Adoption.