We were halfway through dinner at a nice restaurant when my older sister leaned back in her chair, smirked, and said loudly enough for the whole table to hear:
“Hailey, you should find another table. This one’s just for real family, not the adopted one.”
I laughed too, the way you do when you’ve learned that pretending not to hurt is easier than showing it. I’d been adopted into this family at five years old. I was now twenty-seven. That was twenty-two years of little reminders that I was “lucky” to be there, twenty-two years of being reminded I didn’t quite count.
The only person at that long table who had ever made me feel truly wanted was sitting at the far end, quietly watching: my grandmother, Eleanor. She was my adoptive mother’s mother, and the only one whose love had never felt conditional.
I swallowed hard and tried to keep my voice calm. Continue reading…
