I grew up in foster care while my sister stayed with our father – years later, she took me to his house and said, "If you go in there…you'll be in danger." - Page 3 of 12

We chose a dinner place halfway between us. Bright lights. Crowded. Bad coffee. Perfect for life-changing news.
I arrived early and kept checking the door as if I were waiting for my past to walk in.
She froze when she saw me.
When Barbara arrived, my brain had a weird glitch.
Because it was like looking at my face as if it had lived a different life.
Same eyes. Same eyebrow. Same “please don’t hate me” expression.
She froze when she saw me.
She crossed the space and hugged me like she’d been holding her breath for years.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered against my shoulder.
I pulled away. “Sorry, for what?”
Her eyes immediately lit up. “For… everything.”
“Okay,” I said, my voice husky. “Let’s start with fries and facts.”
She laughed through her tears. “Deal.”
She told me our mother’s name was Claire.
She told me our mother’s name was Claire.
“Big heart,” Barbara said, smiling. “Loud laugh. Terrible singing. She’d dance in the kitchen even when the sink was full.
” “What did she look like?” I asked.
Barbara slid her phone across the table.
A picture of a woman with my eyes.
“He’s in a wheelchair. It’s been years.”