“I didn’t come here only to explain.”
Dad’s expression changed.
“What do you want?”
Vanessa slowly unwound the scarf around her neck.
A medical port was visible beneath her collarbone.
“I have acute leukemia,” she said.
The whispers around us stopped.
“I’ve been through chemotherapy twice. It came back three months ago.”
I stared at her.
Vanessa wiped her face with trembling hands.
“My doctors tested everyone they could find. There were no suitable matches.”
Understanding arrived before she finished speaking.
“You came here because of my bone marrow.”
“You’re my biological daughter,” she whispered. “You may be my only chance.”
Dad closed his eyes.
The entire confrontation—the public accusation, the claim that he had stolen me, the dramatic interruption of my graduation—suddenly made sense.
“You could have contacted me privately,” I said.
“I tried calling Mason.”
Dad looked at her sharply. “You called once yesterday and refused to tell me why.”
“I knew you would keep her away from me.”
“No,” he replied. “I would have told her the truth and allowed her to decide. You came here because you thought humiliating me would make her feel guilty.”
Vanessa did not deny it.
I stared at the woman who had given birth to me.
I searched her face for something familiar.
The shape of her eyes resembled mine. So did the small dimple in her chin.
But familiarity was not the same as love.
She was my biological mother.
Dad was the person who knew I hated bananas but loved banana bread. He knew I needed music playing when I studied. He knew I became quiet when I was truly angry and loud when I was only pretending.
