The word hit harder than I expected.
“You knew my parents were dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you never told anyone?”
“No.”
My mother suddenly began crying.
“We loved you.”
I didn’t raise my voice.
“I never asked whether you loved me.”
I looked at my father again.
“I asked whether you stole me.”
He nodded without trying to defend himself.
“Yes.”
Tears filled my mother’s eyes as she reached toward me.
“We wanted a child so badly.”
“You already had a choice,” I answered quietly.
“My parents didn’t.”
She slowly lowered her hand.
My father finally looked at me.
“I was going to tell you someday.”
I couldn’t stop myself from asking the question that had haunted me ever since leaving the airport.
“When?”
He had no answer.
Silence filled the room again.
After several moments, I picked up the folder and walked toward the front door.
My mother stood up in panic.
“Claire… please don’t leave.”
I turned back one final time.
“My name isn’t Claire.”
Neither of them spoke.
“My parents named me Natalie.”
I opened the front door and stepped outside.
For twenty-four years, I believed I had been returning home every time I walked through that doorway.
That afternoon, I finally understood the truth.
I wasn’t leaving my home.
I was walking away from the biggest lie of my entire life.
