graceful or dramatic.
It was two people holding on to each other as though letting go might make the moment disappear.
I stepped into the hallway to give them privacy.
But before I could close the door, Susan called my name.
“Claire?”
I turned.
She reached for my hand.
“Please stay.”
We spent the next three hours talking.
Emily had grown up with loving adoptive parents in Ohio.
She was married and had two children, a boy of twelve and a girl of nine.
She worked as an elementary school
teacher.
She loved gardening, old movies, and terrible jokes.
And when she laughed, she sounded exactly like Susan.
I noticed it immediately.
So did Susan.
Emily had begun searching for her biological family after her adoptive mother encouraged her to explore that part of her history.
She’d contacted the agency, which had eventually reached Susan.
Their first letters had been
