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“My mom wasn’t clean. She overdosed,” I say.

“I know,” Meghan says. “She relapsed about a year later. That’s when your grandma got sole custody of you. She wouldn’t let Ashley see you until she got clean again, and she told me she was trying to. Last she told me, she was six weeks clean.” Meghan’s eyes water. “I don’t know what happened that night.”

This isn’t the story I grew up hearing.

Meghan takes a deep breath. “Anyway, the reason I’m telling you this is because your mom left your dad for a reason. He wasn’t a good person at the time. She knew that as long as she was around him, she wouldn’t be able to recover.”

“And why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because as far as I know, he doesn’t know about you. Ashley didn’t want you to have anything to do with him.” She takes a breath. “Now, after knowing that, do you still want to know who he is?”

I feel like this is a trick question. She’s basically asking me if I want to go against my mother’s wishes and find out the truth, or go on wondering who my father is for the rest of my life.

“I need to know,” I say. Why should I do what my momwanted? She’s gone, leaving me with more scars than she could’ve ever imagined.

Meghan opens her purse and pulls out a photo. It’s the same photo we used to find Meghan, except this copy isn’t cut. My dad is in this picture. He’s. Right. There. My hands shake as I take the picture from her. After all this time I finally know what he looks like. His hair is dark blond. He’s tall and thin, and he slumps forward ever so slightly. He looks like me.

I set the photo down because touching it makes it too real.

“His name is Justin Thomas,” Meghan says. “I looked into him, and from what I can tell, he’s doing a lot better now. He works at a big tech company, and he’s getting married soon.”

I should feel relieved, but there’s an anger building inside me. How can he have such a good life when he’s the reason mine was so awful?

She keeps talking, but I don’t hear what she’s saying. I’m stuck in my head, picturing my dad and what he’s doing now. Part of me wishes I could blend into his life. Would it be hard? Would I be able to fit in with him and his perfect life like I was always meant to be a part of it?

“I have something else for you,” Meghan says, reaching into her purse again. This time she takes out a little paper sleeve of photos, the kind you get when you get photos printed or developed at the store. “Your mom sent me these, and I want you to have them.” She sets it down in front of me on the table.

My fingers linger on the paper sleeve, scared to open it. My mind is cloudy, swimming with confusion and anger and sadness.

Like ripping off a Band-Aid, I open it up, and my chest tightens, anchoring to the ground.

They’re pictures of my mom. My mom and me when I was a baby. Pictures I’ve never seen. Pictures where she’s smiling and hugging me. Pictures where we’re laughing and playing. She’s happy. I’m happy.

I clutch the photos tighter as my eyes start to burn. I stand.

“What’s wrong?” Margo asks.

I don’t respond, and before I can think, I’m running out the door because I can’t breathe. I need air, and I can’t find it. No matter how hard I try, I can’t take in a breath.

Outside, my breathing is ragged as I look around for an escape, a lifeline, but there isn’t one.

I lean against the building, wiping away my tears on my sleeves. They shouldn’t be there in the first place, and yet, I can’t stop them from streaming. Why aren’t these the memories I have of my mom and my childhood? Were we really as happy as we looked?

Margo runs outside and stands in front of me. Her brow is furrowed as she studies me. “What’s going on?”

My vision blurs. The cars passing by on the road are nothing more than streaks of color behind Margo, and she isn’t that much more in focus.

I open my mouth, searching for the words, but they’re stuck at the back of my throat. I hand her the envelope instead.

Margo takes the photos out and stares at them, probably even more confused. Why would seeing these happy photos possibly make me upset? Shouldn’t I be grateful for them? Grateful for a glimpse into the part of my life I was never told about?

She slides the photos back into the envelope. Her fingers gently graze my hand. “Do you miss your mom?”

I shake my head, sniffling. I bite my cheek, trying to stop myself from crying because I don’t like Margo seeing me like this. It doesn’t help, but somehow, I manage to find the words. “My mom loved me,” I whisper. “She actually loved me.”

“Daniel... ,” Margo says, pulling me into a hug. She wraps her arms around me, and I cry on her shoulder.

All these years I grew up thinking I wasn’t wanted by anyone, but that wasn’t true. My mom loved me. She didn’t make the right choices, but there was a part of her that wanted to.