That was the day I understood there were no rival women in this story. There were only people Ray had hurt, and two little girls who had done nothing wrong.
She explained why she kept the truth from me.
At first, I was too young.
Then I was angry about the adoption.
Then I was a teenager.
Then I was leaving for college.
There was always a reason to wait.
Until waiting became cowardice.
The last page hurt the most.
I told myself I was protecting you from knowing your father chose not to return. The truth is, part of me was protecting myself from the moment you would ask why I had kept his choice from you.
You deserved the truth earlier.
Naomi did too.
Please do not punish each other for my fear.
I read that line three times.
Then I passed the letter to my sister.
She read it.
We sat on the basement floor surrounded by papers and photographs belonging to people who had spent decades making decisions for us.
Finally Naomi whispered, “Are you still mad at me?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
“But I don’t want you to leave.”
She looked at me.
“I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get over this.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“And I might ask you the same questions ten different ways.”
“I’ll answer all ten.”
“And if I find out there’s another secret…”
“There isn’t.”
“You sure?”
Naomi thought for a moment.
“Mom hated cilantro.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“She pretended she liked it because you loved that Mexican restaurant.”
I threw a crumpled envelope at her.
She laughed.
Then I laughed.
Then somehow we were both crying again.
Six months later, we found Raymond.
He was seventy-one and living outside Tucson.
Naomi asked whether I wanted to contact him.
For the first time in my life, the decision was mine.
I wrote him a letter.
Not because I wanted him back.
