“You grew in another woman’s belly,” I told her, “and in our hearts.”
When she was 13 she asked, “Do you know anything about my other mom?”
“We know she was very young,” I said. “She left no name or letter. That’s all we were told.”
“So she just left me?”
“We don’t know why,” I said.
“We only know where we found you.”
After a moment she asked, “Do you think she ever thinks about me?”
“I think she does,” I said. “I don’t think you forget a baby you carried.”
Lily nodded and moved on, but I saw her shoulders tense like she’d swallowed something sharp.
As she got older, she learned to answer people without shrinking. “It’s a birthmark,” she’d say.
“No, it doesn’t hurt. Yes, I’m fine. Are you?” The older she got, the steadier her voice became.
At 16 she announced she wanted to be a doctor.
Thomas raised his eyebrows.
“That’s a long road.”
“I know,” she said.
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