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Sierra

M y hands going into fists, my fingers gripping the white paper in my hand so hard the sound of it crinkling fills the room, as well as the sound of my breathing. Or maybe that only echoed in my ears, along with the thumping of my heart.

I see the tears rolling down my mother’s face as she tries to take a step toward me, and I snap, “Is this true?” I hold up the paper, my heart shattering in my chest, making it hard for me to catch my breath. “Tell me.” I’m shouting, and I don’t even know it. “Is this paper true?”

“Sierra,” my father begins calmly, his arm around my mother as she sobs, making her body shake.

“I asked you a question.” My voice never wavering from before.

“Perhaps we should sit down and discuss this.” My father doesn’t raise his voice.

“Discuss this?” I shake my head from side to side. “Discuss this?” The air suddenly leaves me, and I have to fold over to catch my breath. “Discuss this?” This time, I shake my hand with the paper still in it.

“Sierra.” My father is now by my side, his hand rubbing my back.

“Breathe, honey.” I look up at him and move away from his touch.

The man who would make sure nothing hurt me, who used to kiss my boo-boos away.

The man I said I wanted my husband to be like.

The man who taught me how to ride a bike.

The man who taught me how to hang up a shelf by myself so I didn’t need a man to do anything. The man who lied to me my whole life.

“I—I—” I stutter and try to breathe in and out before I literally have a full-blown panic attack. I have never had one, but I’m pretty sure I’m about to have one. “I don’t.”

“Please sit down.” My father pulls out a chair at the breakfast table, where I had breakfast my whole life, starting in a high chair.

The pictures are in my baby book. From me being on my knees since I wasn’t tall enough to finally being able to sit on my behind without hitting my face on the table.

“Sierra, please, we will tell you everything.”

“Why should I believe you now?” I ask, and I can see the hurt all over his face. “You’ve lied to me my whole life. Why should I believe you now?”

“We have never lied to you,” my mother says softly, coming to stand next to my father. “You were—are—loved with everything we have.”

“Don’t you think me not being your child is you lying to me?” The words come out of my mouth in anger, and my mother looks like I slapped her across the face.

“You are my child.” She puts her shoulders back. “You will always be my child.”

I shake my head and look down at the paper in my hands. “This says otherwise.” I hold it up, my voice in a whisper. “Those other papers.” I point over at the counter. “Those say otherwise also.”

“Before you say anything else you can’t take back,” my father says, “at least hear us out.”

I think about what he’s saying, and I know they are the only ones who will have the answers to my questions.

I don’t even know if I’ll ever not have questions.

I step toward the chair and sit down. My father looks over at my mother and motions with his chin to go to the chair in front of me.

She walks over as if she’s walking the plank and will be pushed into shark-infested waters.

She pulls out the chair as she sits down and my father walks over to the counter, taking the article in his hand—along with the picture that fell out—before he comes over and pulls out a chair next to my mother.

I put my hand, still clutching the paper in it, on the table, my mouth suddenly dry.

“Do you want something to drink?” my father asks, and I shake my head instead of nodding.

He takes a deep breath before he starts talking.

“We tried for five years before we thought about going the adoption route.” I listen to him, my chest rising and falling as if I just swam for an hour without stopping.

“We tried everything, even two rounds of IVF, when we found out that nothing we could do would result in us having a child. Basically, we could have children with other people, just not with each other.” I look at him, then my mother.

“We just couldn’t do it together.” He puts his arm around my mother, pulling her to him and kissing her temple.

“And there was no one else I wanted to share my life with, so we decided to go the adoption route.”

“Because your father was in family law, he had contacts.” My mother now takes over from my father. “We wanted to make sure that when we adopted you, it would be private.” She puts her hands on the table and fidgets nervously with her fingers. “Which is why we moved here when we had you?—”

“So no one would out your secret.” I cut her off and shake my head. “A secret everyone in my life kept.”

“We got a call one night; I can still remember the exact time. It was five thirty-seven in the evening, and we had just gotten home with Chinese food.” My mother looks at me and puts one hand on her stomach. “We didn’t know anything about you except you were abandoned.”

The gasp comes out of me without me even knowing.

“From what we could find out at the time, you were dropped off at a fire station”—he puts the article on the table—“in the middle of the night.” I swallow down the bile that is rising up my throat.

“They didn’t ring or anything. You were found when one of the firemen heard crying.

” I close my eyes. “You were in a brown box and a hospital blanket.”

“They called the police right away, and you were rushed to the hospital. The only thing they could tell us was you were a couple of hours old. You were also dehydrated and had a bit of jaundice.” My mother helps him with the story.

“They put the story in the paper, hoping someone would have information or come forward, but no one did,” my father continues. “They called us the next day. It was a miracle.” He wipes away the tears from the corners of his eyes.

“From the minute I got that call, I knew you were mine.” My mother’s voice quivers.

“Then we got there, and I held you for the first time and had this overwhelming sense of love that you can’t explain.

I looked down at you, blinking your eyes and looking around, and said, ‘Hello, angel,’ and you squawked at me as if you were telling me hello.

” She holds the picture out to me. “This was taken right after.”

“I called my father right away and made sure we got everything we needed in order to make sure you were ours,” my father says. “We moved here a month after you were born. No one knows that you aren’t biologically ours. We also made sure the adoption was sealed.”

“But you kept these and those.” I hold up the paper in my hand.

“We never wanted you to find out like this, never,” my mother admits. “We thought maybe when you turned sixteen that we could tell you, but then it just didn’t seem like the right time.”

“When did you think was a good time to tell me everything I thought was real was a lie?” I ask. “You should have told me when I was younger so I could grow up always knowing. Not keep it locked up in a box.”

“We did what we thought was best,” my father says, and I push away from the table, standing.

“You mean what was best for you.” I fold the now semi-crumpled paper and put it in my back pocket.

“You did what was best for you and—” I stop before I say Mom as I shake my head.

“I can’t be here.” I turn and walk out of the house.

I run down the steps to my car, getting in and driving away with tears pouring down my face.

I don’t know how I do it, but I make it home, then walk up the steps to my house in a daze. Unlocking the door, I collapse on the couch. I pick up my phone and call the only person I can think of. Lilah. “Happy birthday,” she says again with a cheerful voice.

“Lilah.” My voice breaks. “Lilah,” I sob.

“Sierra,” she says my name in almost a whisper, “what’s wrong?”

“It’s a lie,” I blurt between sobs, trying to catch my breath. “It’s all a lie.”

“What is?”

“My life.” I close my eyes. “I just found my adoption papers.” Her gasp fills the phone.

“I’m on my way,” she states, disconnecting.