“Yes.”
My throat tightened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you were a child. Because I didn’t want you growing up believing biology made you less mine.”
“You could have told me when I was older.”
“I planned to.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
I stared at him.
He explained that Rachel had contacted him three weeks earlier. Adrian had recently died, and his attorney had discovered the truth about me while reviewing old financial records and letters.
Adrian had eventually learned Rachel lied about what happened after she left.
She had told him I had been adopted by strangers and could not be found.
Years later, when he asked her to help locate me, she refused.
He searched with the limited information he had but never discovered that Ethan Carter—the man listed on my birth certificate—had kept and raised me.
Before Adrian died, he added a provision to his will. If his daughter could ever be located, she was to receive an education trust and a personal letter.
“Rachel wanted to come to graduation,” Dad said. “I told her she could meet you afterward, but only if you agreed. I planned to tell you the truth privately first.”
“She didn’t listen.”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?”
“I didn’t know she was coming today.”
Anger rose inside me, but it no longer had one clear target.
I was angry at Rachel for leaving.
Angry at Adrian for rejecting me before regretting it.
Angry at Dad for deciding when I was ready to know the truth.
But beneath all that anger was one undeniable fact.
The man sitting across from me had learned I wasn’t biologically his—and stayed.
