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I watch fondly from the doorway. This is a family tradition—everyone crammed into the kitchen while Dad cooks and Aunt Sandra complains. It’s never serious.

“You’re lucky the sweet tea is fabulous,” Aunt Sandra says before taking a healthy gulp from her glass. A lonely lemon wedge drowns in an amber sea. Condensation rolls down the side of the glass like raindrops on a windowpane. I shudder: sweet tea, an abomination.

Aunt Sandra turns to Mom. “Is this your contribution to today’s sacrilegious meal, Abby?”

If there is one thing Aunt Sandra has mastered, it’s the art of sarcasm with all the southern venom of a drunk debutante. Mom’s from Savannah, which is deeper in Georgia than good old Athens, where Aunt Sandra lives. Mom’s accent is a lithe, sweet melody. Aunt Sandra’s accent is as thick as molasses. She’s as true-blue southern as thatGolden Girlscharacter Dad sometimes watches on late-night TV.

“It sure is,” Mom replies, happily. “Sorry I burnt the quiche and over-seasoned the deviled eggs, Sandy.”

“It’sSandra, suga.”

“Oh, I know,” Mom says with a perfectly timed Disney-princess wink.

Mom’s slightly better than Aunt Sandra at sweet bitchiness, probably because Mom’s one of seven children. Verbal warfare was a means of survival for her.

Aunt Sandra ignores Mom. “I certainly hope there’s pecan pie later.” She hasn’t met a pie she didn’t like. Or devoured in one sitting.

“I could run to Publix for some,” I offer.

“The devil is a lie!” Aunt Sandra exclaims, hand to her heaving chest. She’s so extra, and it’s not just the overuse of eye shadow and mascara. “No true southerner eats store-bought pecan pie, Remy.”

I wisely choose not to inform Aunt Sandra that she didindeedeat store-bought pie last summer at Dad’s birthday party. I’m saving that bombshell for another Christmas when Aunt Sandra deems a poorly fitting reindeer sweater and a twenty-dollar bill are acceptable gifts.

“And, Max, my word, look at my sweet nephew!” Aunt Sandra’s chunky gold bracelets clank as she waves a hand at me. “He’s barely a hundred pounds sopped in gravy. Heavenly Father! He doesn’t need French toast for dinner; he needs a healthy plate of cornbread and country-fried steak and collard greens.”

Dad chuckles. “Those are thingsyouwant—”

“I’m serious. He’s gorgeous, but give him a biscuit.”

“I’m fine, Aunt Sandra,” I say through my teeth.

“Yes, you are,” Aunt Sandra confirms, smiling too hard. “You’re perfect. I’m just teasing.”

I rub anxiously at my curls; heat prickles my neck. I hate this topic. Message received: I’m not built like Brook or toned like Jayden. But I can’t change that. I’vetried. It’s this epically loud reminder that my anatomy isn’t like my parents’.

I know nothing about my birth parents’ genealogy. Maybe my father was weedy. Maybe my mother was tall with a round jaw. Maybe there are three generations of Remy Cameron lookalikes all over Georgia; I’ll never know.

My birth mother is dead, a too-true fact I learned from my parents when I was in kindergarten thanks to douchebag-in-training David Waller yelling that my carefully crayon-drawn family portrait was “Wrong! You can’t bebrownand your parents arepeach!” in the middle of class. But he was incorrect. I’d usedapricotfor my parents and I was damn proud of it. Any self-respecting five-year-old southerner knows peach is for fruit, not skin tones.

David Waller couldn’t even color in the lines, so his authority on the matter was nil. Also, Katie colored her parents purple, and that was acceptable.

But I didn’t understand. My parents were mine. I was theirs. Of course, we could be different colors and still belong to each other. Right?

My teacher, Mr. Allen, couldn’t answer that question. He beamed at me before announcing it was time for recess. Later, he sent me home with a note decorated in gold stars for my parents—REMY IS CURIOUS ABOUT HIS FAMILY TREE.

That’s how I found out. Over a dinner of chicken nuggets, apple slices, and reality, my dad told me everything while my mom sat quietly, wringing her napkin and blinking way too much.

I was adopted. My birth mother was dead. My birth father? Who knows?

It’s always been me, Remy, the one and only.

There were too many days and nights when I wanted to know more, but I never asked. I was scared. What if all my questions made my parents want me less? What if those answers made me angry? Resentful? Those feelings—the blind inquisitiveness about my heritage—faded eventually. Everything does when you’re five-years-old.

I didn’t know those other parents. I’m a Cameron. This is my family. But, right now, that familiar crippling sensation chases the sweat down my spine. I’m uncomfortable. I need out.

On my way to the backdoor, I stop by the breakfast table, where Willow sits on her knees in a chair. I peek over her shoulder. She’s using erasable markers to draw on Mom’s old save-the-date postcards. A superhero, I think? It’s part-dog, part-bird with a cape. Willow’s imagination is out there.

“Good job, Twinkle Toes.” I peck her temple.