“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad shrugged.
“Wasn’t mine to tell.”
“Mom is gone.”
“Yes.”
“And you were going to die without telling me I had a sister?”
That hurt him.
I saw it.
But I did not take it back.
“I thought about telling you.”
“When?”
“Many times.”
“And?”
“I was afraid you’d ask the next question.”
“What next question?”
He looked at the blue box.
“Where she is.”
My pulse quickened.
“You said she was adopted.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t mean she died.”
“No.”
I stared.
“You said ‘had.’ You said I had a sister.”
Dad closed his eyes briefly.
“Laura—”
“You know where she is.”
“I know where she was.”
“How?”
“Your mother searched.”
“When?”
“After you went to college.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
“She found her?”
Dad nodded.
“Did they meet?”
“Yes.”
“And you let me believe all these years—”
