How do I explain why the tears well the moment she looks at me?
Although the resemblance is definitely there, I’m not the spitting image of her. Her hair, dark like mine, is streaked with silver and sits several inches shorter than my own. Her eyes are almond-shaped like mine, but they’re not brown. They’re a deep, hazel-green.
At first glance, I’d guess she’s three or four inches shorter than me, a detail made even more severe by the wedge heel of my sandals.
“Gretchen?” Her whispered voice slices through the emotion written across both our expressions.
Words course through my head a mile a minute but I find novoice. I manage a nod at the same time the first tear falls and I quickly swat it away.
Her gaze roams over my face, cataloguing every feature. “Oh my goodn—” Her voice catches. “Can I hug you?”
I nod again, because it’s still all I’m capable of, as I step into her embrace. It’s warm and steadfast the way a mother’s hug should be.
Through a shaky breath, constricted by her own tears, she says, “I don’t want to scare you, but I have a rule with my kids that I’m never the first one to let go. You can decide when this ends. Okay?”
I dip my chin against her shoulder, whispering, “Okay.”
She keeps her promise. And when I release and step back, both of us paw at our wet cheeks.
“Do you want to come inside?”
“Yeah.” I look between her and the driveway. “If it’s okay with you, I brought my boyfriend with me. Can I grab him real quick?”
“Of course, of course.”
I jog around the corner and gesture for Connor to join me. As he approaches, I reach for his hand. My tear-streaked cheeks are obvious, but, “Come on,” is all I offer as I pull him behind me.
“Connor, this is Cheyenne. Cheyenne, this is my boyfriend, Connor.” Handshakes are exchanged before she leads us inside.
Trailing a few steps behind Cheyenne, Connor wraps an arm over my shoulder and kisses my temple. I lean into him as we pass through the small entryway and enter the main living area. Cheyenne invites us to sit before disappearing to the kitchen for drinks.
We take a seat on a well-loved gray couch alongside a wood coffee table that is worn at the corners, bearing several scratches in the finish from many years of use. The bookshelves on either side of the fireplace boast dozens of framed pictures scattered amongst books and decorative items. I want to inspect each picture, take in every face, ask who they are.Patience,I remind myself. There’s plenty of time for that.
“Miguel had a work meeting this morning that he couldn’t reschedule, but he’s on his way. He’s so excited to meet you.” She passes us each a glass of water and swiftly runs her trembling handsdown the front of her dress, every emotion still right there at the surface. As she settles into the chair to my left, she glances at her watch. “I expect him back any minute.” Her eyes land back on me and a soft smile graces her face.
“Is he y?—”
I’m interrupted by the sound of a door opening down the hall followed by a loud voice, breathless like the person ran here, “I’m here! Sorry I’m late.” The foreign lilt to his voice is noticeable, but his words are clear.
“We’re in the living room,” Cheyenne calls over her shoulder.
A few seconds later, the source of the male voice steps into view and my heart stops in my chest.
All this time, I’ve been wondering if I’d look like Cheyenne, when in reality the man across the room looks more like me than I do. Even Connor, mouth slack jawed beside me, mumbles a quiet, “Oh my God.”
The tall, dark-haired, brown-eyed, middle-aged man with freckles dotting his nose and a bottom-lip that’s fuller than the top, stares back at me. It all clicks into place—the accent, the last name, my Mexican ancestry—a fraction of a second before he says, “Oh, mija.”
Daughter.
Is this…real? I shake my head slightly, jostling my jumbled thoughts, but that only makes it worse. “Are you…um…” Nothing else comes out as my eyes slingshot from Miguel to Cheyenne and back.
Connor squeezes my hand and asks, “I think Gretchen is trying to ask if you’re her biological father?”
My vision blurs as Cheyenne and Miguel look questioningly at each other. She leans in and rests her hand on my arm. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” I choke out. “Only your name was on my birth certificate.”
Cheyenne sighs, looking to Miguel with a sympathetic smile.
