Chapter 10: Whose Daughter

Hannah's apartment was on the third floor of an old brick building.

She kept a window box of herbs alive out of pure stubbornness.

I knocked and waited.

"Cedric's at rehearsal," she said through the door. "I'm not up to this."

"I'm not here to fight."

"Mom."

"I've been to see Cynthia," I said. "And I've seen your father. I'm only here to tell you what they said."

The lock turned.

She wore pajama pants and one of Cedric's sweaters, with her hair down and her face bare.

She looked about fifteen.

She let me in and shut the door behind me.

The living room was full of boxes labeled in her handwriting.

Napkins. Favors. Seating cards, spare.

I sat on the arm of the couch and kept my hands in my lap.

"Cynthia says she's your mother," I said. "Your birth mother."

Hannah's face went completely blank.

"She told you," she said.

"She told me in front of her whole department."

"She wasn't supposed to." Her voice shook.

"Dad said you knew. He said you'd always known she was alive."

"What else did he say?"

"That you made him promise never to look for her, because it was too much for you."

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