My mother.
The woman Raymond had betrayed.
The woman he had left with a five-year-old daughter and almost no money.
Caroline had asked her to raise his other child.
And somehow, unbelievably, Mom said yes.
Caroline died when Naomi was eleven.
There was no dramatic adoption plan.
No perfect transition.
For several months Naomi stayed with a foster family while paperwork was sorted out.
Mom visited her.
At first secretly.
Then every weekend.
Eventually she filed to become Naomi’s legal guardian.
A year later, she adopted her.
“You were twelve when you came to us,” I whispered.
Naomi nodded.
I suddenly remembered the purple backpack.
The grocery bag of clothes.
The way Naomi used to hide food in her bedroom drawer.
The nightmares.
The panic attacks.
The way Mom always said she had “been through things.”
I had spent years believing Naomi received more because Mom loved her more.
The truth was Naomi had arrived in our house after losing almost everything.
“Why didn’t Mom tell me we were sisters?”
“Because of what happened with Ray.”
“What happened?”
Naomi looked toward the safe again.
And I knew there was more.
Of course there was more.
There was always more.
She pulled out a photograph.
Raymond.
Older than I remembered him.
Standing beside a red pickup truck.
The date on the back was from when I was thirteen.
My hands went cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“I met him.”
My head snapped up.
“What?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“When I was sixteen.”
I could barely speak.
“Dad came here?”
“No. I went to him.”
My chest tightened.
