chapter 6
This couldn’t be happening, not at the same time as the implosion of her marriage. Her family was the one thing she’d always
relied on; she was relying heavily on them now. No way was she willing to believe they’d lied her entire life, especially
about something so fundamental, so foundational.
Charlotte started to read the letter again, but her hands were trembling and tears were beginning to blur the words. Wiping
her eyes, she struggled to navigate the landmines.
She wasn’t who she thought she was. That was the main takeaway.
But the details were just as shocking. She’d been adopted at birth and yet her parents had never let on.
And now her birth mother had died, leaving behind another daughter named Lilly, who was twelve.
No one knew who Lilly’s father was, so her mother’s boyfriend was caring for the girl until more permanent arrangements could be made, but he’d only been with Sabrina—that was the name the attorney provided for the woman who had supposedly given birth to her—for a few months and didn’t want permanent responsibility.
Something had to be done about the child, so this attorney, who’d been searching for Sabrina’s relatives, was reaching out to see if Charlotte might be interested in meeting and possibly taking custody of her only sibling.
Custody of a twelve-year-old. Her sibling. Her sister.
“Oh, my God,” she said aloud and dropped the letter before picking it up and reading it one more time, just for good measure.
There was another astonishing detail in it that she’d stumbled over while trying to process all the rest.
It only took a moment to find it. There it was—in the last paragraph. Although Lilly was born in the United States, it had
been Sabrina’s dream to live on the Amalfi Coast, so she’d taken Lilly and moved to Italy only a few months ago—to a small
town called Praiano.
Charlotte had never heard of it. It was half a world away, in a foreign country. And this sister—
“No,” she said aloud. She was not the person Mr. Heidelman was looking for. She needed to write back immediately, say she
was terribly sorry about the girl’s plight, but she’d been born to Penny McCord, who’d grown up in Orange County, been a D-1
collegiate tennis player, coached for her alma mater for ten years and then, later, gave lessons at the club while married
to Don Williams, a hedge fund manager who also came from affluent parents. The attorney needed to look elsewhere for Lilly’s
half sister, because this terrible situation had nothing to do with Charlotte Rose Williams-Jackson—minus the Jackson soon,
she reminded herself.
For a second, she felt an upwelling of relief. The attorneys at Heidelman had made a mistake. That had to be it. But she was
off-balance enough to carry the letter out to the living room, where her father was watching television.
He glanced up with a look of expectation on his face when he heard her. “I thought you were going to start writing.”
“I was,” she said. “But I decided to go through the mail I picked up at the Malibu house first.”
He muted the TV. “Don’t tell me there are divorce papers in there.”
“No.”
“A letter from Cliff, reneging on the prenup?” he asked, trying again.
“No.” She was having trouble finding the words. How did she ask her father if he was really her father?
But he could tell something was wrong, and she didn’t want him to keep guessing, so she blurted out, “Was I adopted?”
The blood rushed from his face, telling her the letter was no mistake. She’d been tricked, or lied to, or . . . or encouraged
to assume something to be true that wasn’t. She couldn’t say if there was anything wrong with what her parents had done. She
wasn’t sure why they’d done it, or if she would’ve done the same thing in their shoes. She just knew that she felt robbed.
Violated in a very personal, deeply emotional way. Because her adoptive parents had withheld the truth from her, she’d never
had the chance to meet her birth mother, and now she never would. Was it fair to make that decision for her?
It didn’t feel fair. “Dad!” she said, the word a hopeless groan as she sank onto the couch.
He came over and knelt at her feet. “Honey, who told you? Did Cliff do this to hurt you—hurt us all—by tearing our family
apart? How’d he find out?”
She was so choked up she couldn’t answer. She handed him the letter, but he didn’t take it right away. His eyes remained fixed
on her. He obviously didn’t want her to be crushed, but she could tell he knew she was and felt terrible about it.
Finally, he accepted the letter she held out to him.
After he read it, he closed his eyes and shook his head. “I was afraid something like this would happen. I told your mother
we had to tell you, but there was never a good time.”
“Never a good time?” she echoed. “How could that be true? I’ve been around for nearly thirty years.
Surely, you could’ve found a moment. What about when I was in fourth grade and brought home Hannah Jones, and she told me she’d been adopted?
I remember Mom explaining to me exactly what that meant. You were there at dinner, too.”
“I don’t remember. I just know you were thriving, like we wanted you to. We couldn’t bear the thought of doing anything that
might threaten your sense of security, your happiness. We were afraid it would only make you crave something you couldn’t
have. And we loved you so much we didn’t think a . . . technicality like DNA really mattered.”
They’d been good parents. Stellar parents. She couldn’t complain about the job they’d done raising her. But the decision they’d made . . . Was it better for
her not to know?
Maybe it was. But now she did know and knowing brought a tidal wave of pain and so many questions. It created a hunger in her soul—a hunger to know more.
“Why did my birth mother give me up?” She was prepared for him to try to evade the question and was relieved when he didn’t.
Instead, he spread his hands wide as if he’d tell her anything she wanted to know.
“She was barely eighteen when she had you, still had a year left of high school.”
“And my father? Was he another kid who was too young to take on the responsibility?”
“No. We were told he was a much older man, a neighbor from down the street who already had a family.”
“Ew!” Could this day get any worse?
Her father didn’t say anything. Apparently, he didn’t know how to respond to that, except with a frown.
“Where is he now?” she asked.
He shook his head helplessly. “We don’t know. We’ve never heard from him, and we’ve been glad about that.”
Because it had allowed them to keep her origins a secret? “And my birth mother? Sabrina? You never heard from her, either?”
“No,” he said softly.
They were probably happy about that, too. Otherwise, they might’ve been forced to tell her the truth. Had they been more afraid
of what the news would do to her—or to them?
That was an ungenerous thought. She hated herself for having it. They’d always put her first. But she was so rattled she wasn’t
thinking clearly. “She must never have changed her mind about me,” she said, the knife of that intimate rejection plunging
deep. “Never wanted to meet me.”
“Situations like this . . . They’re not that simple, honey,” he said. “I’m sure she would’ve loved to meet you, but didn’t
want to intrude for fear it would confuse or upset you. Maybe it was too painful for her to even face the fact that she’d
already had a child. If I had to guess, I’d say that’s something a woman never really gets over. It’s not like she had to
worry that you’d go without the love and care you needed. We assured her and her family from the very beginning—through the
adoption agency—that we’d give you everything we possibly could.”
And they’d done that. But this blow . . . She couldn’t get over the sense of betrayal—overlying the painful rejection—that
was digging into her with talon-like claws. “So what do I do?” she asked.
He blinked. “What do you mean?”
She indicated the letter. “I have a half sister who needs someone to take care of her. I can’t continue living my life as
if she doesn’t exist.”
“We’ll send for her—bring her here,” he said. “Your mother and I would love another child.”
They were too old to become parents again. Her father worked long hours, and her mother was no longer healthy.
“Don’t you think we should meet her before we make a decision like that?”
“Actually, we probably should,” he said. “We have our passports. We’ll all go over there.”
“I don’t think we should go over and just grab her, if that’s what you’re suggesting. It’ll take time to assess what’s best
for her. She’s just lost her mother. Uprooting her right now could be the worst thing in the world for her, especially if
she’s happy living where she is.”
“So what are you getting at?” he asked. “We can’t stay more than a week or two. I have work, and it probably wouldn’t be wise
to take your mother out of the country for too long.”
“I’ll go,” she said. “It’s not like I have a husband to worry about anymore.”
His eyes widened. “What about your book?”
“I can write from anywhere,” she said—if she could write at all. That remained to be seen, especially now. She’d been in an emotional tailspin before receiving the news that she’d been adopted, her birth mother had just died and she had a younger sister who needed her.
He didn’t seem convinced she’d be better off on her own. “We should probably go over with you—”
“Dad,” she broke in. “I’m nearly thirty years old. I’m an adult, and I’m going alone.”
“Shouldn’t we include your mother in this conversation?”
She stood. “I’m willing to hear her opinion, but I don’t think it’ll change my mind.”
He got to his feet, too. “But you’re already dealing with a painful divorce . . .”
“Dad, there could be worse things than going to Italy.” She offered him a feeble smile, and he pulled her into his arms.