* * *
Daphne settled on Rose’s couch, a glass of white wine in one hand. They had just returned from the hospital and were waiting for the Indian food Rose had ordered for their dinner.
“The doctor says your father can go home tomorrow,” Daphne said.
“I know. That’s great. He’s really doing well mom. The doctors wouldn’t let him go home if he wasn’t ready.” She felt that she needed to reassure her mother since a frown of worry creased Daphne’s forehead.
“Oh, I know. He’s doing well, but all he can talk about is all these projects he has waiting at home. He’s already talking about the early spring planting and he’s been sketching ideas for a new garage. He wants to build it himself.”
“He’s adjusting to a pretty big shock. His heart’s been damaged by a condition he didn’t know he had. Once he gets back home, he’ll settle down and he will rest. All he has to do is listen to his body.”
“I’m sure you’re right, I’m just worried. He’s always been so healthy. He never gets sick. He always tells me he’s like one of those stubborn weeds in the garden; he thrives in stony soil and neglect. It’s going to kill him to have to slow down and see doctors regularly.”
“I know.”
At that moment, their food arrived. They settled at her dining table to eat, and Rose refilled their wineglasses.
“I’m sorry about the circumstances,” Daphne said, “but it’s really nice to have a meal with only the two of us.”
“It is.” She nibbled on a piece of Tandoori chicken, then fluffed her Basmati rice with her fork. “Mom, can I talk to you about something?”
Daphne glanced up from the dish of dal. “Of course you can.”
She put down her knife and fork and picked up her wine. Why she should feel nervous about this conversation, she had no idea, but she felt strangely confused. She didn’t even know where to begin.
Finally, she said, “Why didn’t you tell me I wasn’t adopted?” There. It was out. The issue that had been bothering her since that surreal moment in the hospital when she’d discovered that these very nice people, the ones she’d always been grateful to for taking her in, were her real parents.
Daphne looked at her with blue eyes—blue eyes that were very like her own. Those eyes were kind and compassionate, because Daphne was both of those things. She was the kind of woman who took in children no one else wanted even as she went right along having her own kids and never bothering to tell the misguided offspring which were which.
“You know the rules. Any one of our children could ask about their parentage when they turned sixteen. We never offered any information before sixteen and if a child preferred not to know then we respected that. To Jack and me you are all our children, as loved and treasured as though we’d given birth to every one of you.”
She’d heard versions of that speech all her life, always deeply thankful that somewhere out there were people who were like her, not like the hemp-glad, impractical, overpopulated Chances. “But you knew I believed I was adopted.”
Was that a touch of sadness in her mother’s eyes? Too bad. A lie was a lie even if it was an unspoken one. “Of course I knew. But you never asked. And I stuck to the agreement we made with all of you.”
“But—”
“You know why you never asked.” Daphne reached across and touched her hand. “Most children are afraid of the trauma of discovering they were adopted. That the people who should have loved them most in the world gave them away. But in your case the opposite was true. You were terrified of finding out that you didn’t belong to anyone else. That you were exactly where you belonged. There was no wicked fairy, or evil stepmother who separated you from your real family. We were your real family. It wasn’t up to me to destroy your fantasy.”
“But I’m nothing like you. You and Dad are compassionate, you’d rather save the planet than buy a decent pair of shoes.”
“I don’t care about fashion. That doesn’t make me a saint. And you do care about fashion. That doesn’t make you a bad person. You save lives. You’re a healer.”
“I went into medicine for the money.”
“Doctors who only want the money usually go into obscure specialties or cosmetic surgery. You’re in family medicine and your patients love you.”
“How do you know?”
“The guest room is also your home office. I read some of the cards on your bulletin board, and you’ve got photos of a lot of new babies. I think you love your work.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t want to make money.”
“Why shouldn’t you make money?”
“If you were me you’d be with Doctors Without Borders and what little money you earned you’d give away.”
“But I’m not you. I respect your choices. Darling, I’m so proud of you and all you’ve accomplished.”
