Then last year, I met Marisa.
She was confident and polished, quick with a joke. She liked that I packed leftovers for my daughter before night shifts. Avery was cautious but polite, which, in teenage language, meant approval.
After eight months, I bought a ring.
Then one night, Marisa came over acting wrong.
She didn’t sit down. Didn’t take off her coat. She just shoved her phone toward me.
“Your daughter is hiding something from you,” she said. “You need to see this.”
My mouth went dry as the screen loaded.
Messages. Screenshots. Accusations. Someone claiming Avery had lied about who she was. That she’d taken a life that wasn’t hers. That she’d manipulated me.
I felt the ground tilt.
I didn’t raise my voice. I didn’t argue. I walked down the hall and knocked on Avery’s door.
She opened it immediately, eyes already red.
“I was going to tell you,” she said. “I promise.”
We sat on her bed. She handed me her phone with shaking hands.
The messages weren’t what Marisa had implied.
They were careful. Gentle. Awkward.
Avery had done a DNA test for a school project. A long shot. A miracle. She matched with a woman who had been searching for her niece for over a decade. The sister of her biological mother.
“She didn’t ask for anything,” Avery whispered. “She just wanted to know if I was okay.”
I read the last message slowly.
