Chapter 2 - Ethan was not my brother
The first question arrived before anyone asked it aloud.
I saw it move through the chapel.
Bride.
Groom.
Mother.
Daughter.
Son.
People did the arithmetic.
So did I.
I looked at Ethan.
He looked almost offended that I could even think it.
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m adopted.”
The officiant blinked.
Someone in the second pew whispered:
“Oh, thank God.”
Under any other circumstances, I might have laughed.
Ethan took both my hands.
“Claire, I am not biologically related to Victoria.”
Victoria was still on the floor.
Crying.
She looked up.
“Ethan came to us when he was six.”
He corrected automatically:
“Seven.”
“Seven.”
The ordinary correction made the impossible moment stranger.
Victoria continued:
“Jonathan and I adopted him when he was eight.”
I knew Ethan was adopted.
Of course I did.
I knew the broad story.
Foster care.
His biological parents had lost custody because of addiction and neglect.
Jonathan and Victoria became foster parents after years of infertility and grief.
What I had never known was why Victoria had spent years grieving before Ethan entered her life.
Ethan had only ever said:
“Mom lost a baby before me.”
I assumed miscarriage.
Stillbirth.
Maybe neonatal death.
Never missing.
Never stolen.
I looked at the hospital tag.
“Who was Baby Girl Ashford?”
Victoria whispered:
“Hannah.”
My stomach twisted.
“You named her?”
“Yes.”
“Was she your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
Victoria looked toward the pews.
At the guests.
At the torn lace on the floor.
At the wedding that had ceased being a wedding.
Then said:
“She disappeared from the hospital twenty-two years ago.”
I stared.
“How old?”
“Three days.”
I stopped breathing.
Exactly twenty-two years.
Exactly my age.
Ethan stepped closer.
“Claire.”
I pulled my hands away.
Not because of him.
Because suddenly every person touching me felt like one more person deciding what I was.
I looked at Victoria.
“You think I’m her because of a scar?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“The bracelet.”
“That’s your bracelet.”
“The scar came first.”
“What does that mean?”
She shook her head.
“I need to explain.”
I looked around the chapel.
One hundred thirty people.
Phones appearing.
Guests whispering.
My ruined sleeve hanging from my hand.
“No.”
Victoria looked crushed.
“No?”
“You don’t get to explain this here.”
I turned toward the officiant.
Then Ethan.
My voice shook.
“We are stopping.”
Ethan nodded immediately.
Not:
Postponing?
Not:
Are you sure?
Just:
May you like
“Yes.”
That saved something between us.
