I couldn’t move.
The lilies were still clutched against my chest.
My adoptive mother laughed again.
Then she said the woman’s name.
“Marianne.”
I had never heard that name before.
But something about the way she said it made my skin crawl.
Her mother spoke quietly.
“Are you sure they still don’t know?”
My adoptive mother laughed.
“Of course they don’t know. I made sure of that.”
My heart started pounding.
I took one step backward.
Then another.
I should have left.
I should have walked back to my car and called my brother.
Instead, I stayed.
Because my adoptive mother said something next that changed everything.
“They actually believe their mother abandoned them.”
I stopped breathing.
Their mother.
She wasn’t talking about herself.
She was talking about our birth mother.
My fingers tightened around the flowers.
Her mother chuckled.
“You told them she was dead?”
“No,” my adoptive mother replied.
“I told them she didn’t want them.”
There was a long silence.
Then her mother asked:
“And what about the money?”
My stomach dropped.
“What money?”
My adoptive mother lowered her voice.
“The money Marianne left for them.”
I nearly dropped the lilies.
Money?
Our birth mother had left money?
For us?
Her mother laughed.
“They never found out?”
“No.”
“How?”
“I made sure the records disappeared.”
I felt dizzy.
For twenty-eight years, we’d been told our birth mother abandoned us.
For twenty-eight years, we’d been told we were lucky anyone wanted us.
For twenty-eight years, my adoptive mother had reminded us that she had “saved” us.
But now I was standing in her hallway listening to her admit that she’d hidden something from us.
Something our birth mother had left behind.
Then I heard the words that broke whatever remained of my trust.
“The twins weren’t supposed to stay with us forever.”
Her mother asked:
“Then why did you keep them?”
My adoptive mother sighed.
“Because Marianne changed her mind.”
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“She came back.”
I pressed my hand against the wall to steady myself.
“She came back?” her mother asked.
“Three months after the adoption.”
My entire body went cold.
“And she wanted them back?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you give them to her?”
My adoptive mother laughed.
“Because by then the house was already paid for.”
I couldn’t breathe.
The house.
The money.
Us.
Suddenly, everything she’d said over the years sounded different.
You should be grateful.
We took you in.
You’d have been in an orphanage.
Your mother didn’t want you.
Maybe none of it had been true.
I quietly pulled out my phone.
I started recording.
My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped it.
Then my adoptive mother said:
“Marianne made one mistake.”
“What?”
“She trusted me.”
Her mother laughed.
“What happened to her?”
My adoptive mother went silent.
Then she whispered:
“She tried to take them.”
“And?”
“I made sure she couldn’t.”
I froze.
“What did you do?”
There was another long silence.
Then my adoptive mother answered:
“I told the social worker she was unstable.”
Her mother gasped.
“You didn’t.”
“I did.”
“And Marianne?”
“She left town.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it.
Then her mother asked:
“What about the letters?”
My adoptive mother suddenly stopped laughing.
“What letters?”
“The ones Marianne sent.”
“I burned them.”
Every muscle in my body went numb.
Twenty-eight years.
Twenty-eight years of believing that our mother never wrote.
Never called.
Never cared.
But she had.
She had tried.
And someone had made sure we never knew.
Then my adoptive mother said something else.
Something that made me finally understand why she had spent all those years making us feel indebted to her.
“The boys were worth every penny.”
I stared at the kitchen doorway.
The flowers slipped from my hands.
They hit the floor.
Both women went silent.
I heard a chair scrape across the kitchen floor.
My adoptive mother appeared in the doorway.
She looked at me.
Then at the flowers.
Then at the phone in my hand.
Her face went completely white.
“Evan…”
I raised the phone.
“How much?”
She didn’t answer.
“How much did you get for adopting us?”
Her mother stood up behind her.
“Evan, you don’t understand—”
“How much?”
My adoptive mother finally whispered a number.
And when I heard it, I realized the truth was even worse than I had imagined.
Because the amount wasn’t just money.
It was the exact amount needed to pay off the mortgage on the house we had grown up in.
The house she had spent twenty-eight years telling us she sacrificed everything to provide.
I looked at her.
“You didn’t save us.”
She started crying.
“You were children. You don’t understand.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I understand perfectly.”
Then my phone buzzed.
A message had arrived from my brother.
“Where are you? I found something.”
I stared at the screen.
Another message appeared.
“I found Marianne.”
My heart stopped.
Then came a third message.
“She’s alive.”