“We’re okay, Dad.”
I wanted to demand the truth. But fear closed my mouth.
They froze.
Deep down, I thought I knew.
Their adoption had never been a secret. Maybe they were looking for their birth family.
I had promised myself I would never make them choose.
So, I swallowed the question for three years.
***
By the eighteenth birthday listed on their records, I had practiced losing them.
I thought I knew.
I cooked their favorites: garlic chicken and buttery mashed potatoes.
Chris dropped by with a cake and hugged them both. Andrea called too, like she did every birthday. When Chris left, he wouldn’t meet my eyes.
That should’ve warned me.
***
After dinner, Emily set down her fork.
I cooked their favorites.
“Dad, we need to get something.”
Grace stood too quickly.
They went upstairs together.
I listened to their footsteps.
When they came back, each carried one of the old towels.
“We need to get something.”
My chair scraped the floor as I stood.
“What are those doing out?”
Emily laid the white towel on the table. Grace placed the pink one beside it.
“Dad,” Emily said, “please don’t hate us for what you’re about to see.”
“Hate you? Why would I hate you?”
Grace’s chin trembled.
“What are those doing out?”
“For three years, we’ve been lying to you,” Grace said.
My hand tightened around the chair.
“Lying about what?”
“Where we were going,” Emily said.
“The study groups? The weekend plans?”
They both nodded.
“The weekend plans?”
I took a step back from the towels.
“Did you find them?”
Grace stared at me.
“Your other family,” I said.
Emily’s face folded. “Dad, no. That’s not what we were doing!”
“Did you find them?”
“It’s okay,” I said too quickly. “If you found something, I’ll help. I mean it. I won’t make you choose.”
Grace pushed the white towel toward me.
“This isn’t about leaving you.”
“Then what is it?”
“Open it,” Emily said.
I unfolded the towel.
“I mean it.”
Something slipped from the folds and landed between us.
Three plane tickets.
Three seats.
“No,” I whispered.
Grace said, “We leave in three days.”
“We haven’t been back there in 18 years.”
Three plane tickets.
“We know,” Emily said.
“Babysitting. Tutoring. Dog walking. Weekend shifts once we were old enough,” Grace said. “Every dollar we could save.”
“For this?” I asked.
“For you,” Emily said.
I shook my head. “I can’t go back there.”
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“Every dollar we could save.”
“You can,” Grace said. “But we’ll go together.”
She pulled the pink towel closer.
“There’s more.”
I wanted to refuse before the room cracked open wider.
But my daughters were watching me, and I had spent 18 years teaching them not to run from hard things.
So, I opened it.
“We’ll go together.”
A scrapbook rested inside. On the cover, they had written:
“Our Family Began Before We Could Remember”
The first page showed me asleep with both of them tucked against my chest.
Then came birthdays, missing teeth, school plays, report cards, and Father’s Day cards.
Near the back, an envelope slipped out.
Sarah’s photo was inside.
A scrapbook rested inside.
“Where did you get this?”
“You dropped your wallet when we were fifteen,” Emily said. “I snapped a copy before you grabbed the photo back.”
“Is that why you never talked about her?” Grace asked. “Because it hurts too much?”
I pushed the chair back.
“I was trying to protect you.”
“Where did you get this?”
“From what?” Grace asked.
“From feeling like second choices.”
Emily stepped closer.
“We never felt that.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then help us understand,” Grace said.
“You don’t understand.”
I looked at Sarah’s smile in the photo.
“If I said her name, I was afraid you’d hear what I lost instead of what you gave me.”
