Eliza Carter
Not that she hadn’t tried. Her parents had never hidden the fact that she was adopted, but it wasn’t a topic that was openly discussed, either.
When she was a child, the details were simply glossed over with smiles and assurances of their love.
Then, later, everything between her parents began to fall apart before she could find the courage to ask.
Fights echoing down the hall late at night.
Days of silence that were almost just as painful.
Even now, years later, it seemed strange to think about her name.
How it connected her to two people whose lineage didn’t match her own.
Her adoptive parents loved her, of course.
She had never questioned that. But after the divorce, she could never shake one nagging question—was she the daughter they hoped for when they made the choice to adopt?
Yes, their marriage had failed, but she could still be the silver lining.
Perhaps that was why she worked so hard to make them proud, to live up to the potential they so often told her she had.
She had learned to measure her life by their lens, so by the time she graduated from college, she couldn’t quite tell where their dreams ended and her own began.
That’s when she began to wonder about her birth mother.
She had before then, obviously, but when she was young, it was usually a curiosity about her reflection.
Sometimes she would spend too long looking in the mirror, studying her long, straight nose.
Her brown curls and her large dark eyes.
Where did those eyes come from? she would wonder.
Had they been her mother’s? Passed down from the women who came before her?
She had no way to be sure. And, really, who was there to ask?
Sometimes, on a particularly sad day, if she was consumed with self-pity, Eliza obsessed over her birth mother’s choice to give her away. Did she even have a choice? She often wondered, if faced with the same situation, would she make the same decision?
After Eliza graduated from college and moved to New York, she tried to get answers.
She had reached out to the adoption agency to see if there were any breadcrumbs they could share about her birth parents.
She tried not to hope but couldn’t help the crushing disappointment when she received the form letter back stating what she already knew: The adoption was closed, and they were unable to share any details.
Eliza had no choice in the matter at all.
She tried to remind herself that it didn’t really matter.
Most people didn’t know much about their family history, either, despite knowing exactly who their parents were.
This was America—a jumble of people made up of other people who came from every corner of the world.
But that hadn’t stopped her from getting one of those ancestry kits online a few years later, one that asked you to swab the inside of your cheek, then send it back to receive your results.
She had done so, waiting patiently for three weeks until the email arrived.
She had expected more fanfare, but in the end she had opened it in her pajamas while in bed, staring at the results while waiting to feel something.
But instead of elation or joy, there was just mild confusion as she worked out how to read the information: 38 percent Iberian Peninsula; 29 percent Great Britain; 25 percent Eastern Europe; 8 percent South Asia.
Numbers listed and explained thoroughly, yes, but there were no names.
No pictures. Nothing personal to connect her to any of those statistics that somehow made up her whole being.
In the end, she stopped caring. At least, that’s what she told herself.
Then she met Ben Capshaw.
Eliza had noticed him around the office at work. How could she not? As soon as he stepped off the elevator, every woman on the floor locked eyes with his six-foot-tall frame, lopsided smile, and curly black hair. The casual way he strode to the conference room and the deep laugh when he left.
He joined the company in October, and by February, his visits to the fifth floor for the executive meetings became the highlight of Eliza’s week.
But she never talked to him. Even the thought of it sent panic through her chest. What would she even say?
For the past three years, she had been working so hard she had barely made any friends there, let alone dated.
Which was fine. She was content to watch from afar and let her imagination do the rest.
Except, Ben Capshaw had other plans.
Eliza had stayed late at work, per usual, and hadn’t expected to find anyone in the elevator when she pressed the call button. That’s why she walked in without looking up, and straight into Ben’s broad chest.
“Sorry!” she said, eyes darting to his, then away, then to the buttons, then to the floor. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he said, that lopsided smile on his face. “Serves me right for standing smack in the middle like that. I just didn’t expect anyone else to be here this late.”
Eliza let out a breathy laugh. “Me, either.”
He leaned down a bit, making sure to catch her gaze with his before he asked, “You work on the fifth floor, right?”
“I do,” she replied, so dumbfounded that she forgot to be nervous anymore. “How do you know that?”
His smile broadened, so warm and kind that her heart stumbled in her chest.
“Because walking by your desk is the highlight of my week,” he said.
He asked her to grab a drink, which led to dinner, which led to his walking her home and kissing her so thoroughly that she forgot to take things slow.
To safeguard her heart and set boundaries.
All she knew was that her hand fit perfectly in his, and for the first time in her entire life, she felt like she truly belonged to someone.
She moved in with him just a few months later.
Met his family at Christmas. Got a birthday card from his parents in March.
Without even realizing it, her hopes, her dreams, her future became inextricably enmeshed with his.
His dreams became her dreams; her life was measured by his lens, just as it had been by her parents.
The worst part was that she hadn’t even noticed she was doing it.
Not until the following August, when Ben suggested they head out to the Hamptons for a long weekend to celebrate their one-year anniversary.
Even though they had both lived in the city for years, neither had ever made the journey out to the eastern tip of Long Island, and they spent the weekend enjoying the beaches and small seafood shacks along the narrow roads, even while laughing about how out of place they were amid the sprawling mansions and luxury cars.
Their final night, they found a dive bar along Montauk Highway, just down the road from their hotel, and wandered in just as a band took the stage.
They were dressed like ABBA but had face makeup like KISS, and when they started singing “Dancing Queen” over thundering drums, Eliza had laughed so hard she almost snorted her drink out her nose.
“Is this okay?” Ben had asked.
“This is perfect,” she finally said through her smile.
He had smiled, too, then leaned down to steal a kiss. Then he laughed.
“What?” she asked.
“I just realized that when we get married and have kids, their first exposure to KISS is through stories about tonight,” he said close to her ear.
It was an innocent comment. Sweet, really. But it fell against her chest like a lead weight, stealing the air in her lungs.
“How many kids do you think you want to have?” he continued, his lips so close he could get away with almost whispering. “I’m thinking two. And a dog. We definitely need a dog.”
She could feel her smile flatten, and the sound of the music suddenly felt very far away.
Ben noticed a moment later. He leaned back, his forehead creasing. “You okay?”
Was she? It was the first time they had ever broached the idea of marriage, let alone children.
She had barely thought about it. But that didn’t mean that he hadn’t.
So why did that fact make her want to recoil?
Why had those simple words triggered such a panic deep in her bones? “Fine. I just… I need a minute.”
Then she disappeared into the bathroom, keeping the tears at bay until she reached the sink.
And now, here she was, standing in front of the bathroom mirror in a dive bar somewhere in East Hampton, tears in her eyes and mascara running down her face.
She studied her long, straight nose again.
Her brown hair and her large dark eyes. For the first time, she wished it were her mother’s face.
That if she stared long enough, she could ask it for advice.
Had she had a similar moment herself? An instant when she woke up and realized she was locked in a social contract that she had never actually signed?
Was this same blind panic the reason why she gave Eliza up? Did she ever end up regretting it?
God, what was wrong with her? She loved Ben. She loved him so much that the thought of losing him was almost unbearable. But at the same time, she couldn’t ignore how her body reacted, like a generational muscle had awakened and was forcing her to pull away.
Another sob wretched itself from her chest, and she let her head fall into her hands.
Behind her, Eliza heard the bathroom door open, but she didn’t bother to look to see who had come in. Not until a moment later, when she heard a clear, light voice behind her.
“Do you want a Clé de Peau Beauté towelette?”
Eliza blinked away her tears to look up into the mirror. There was a brunette woman standing behind her, statuesque and gorgeous in heels and a short sundress that looked distinctly out of place against the mustard yellow walls and bathroom graffiti.
“I’m sorry?” Eliza asked.