His hand stills for a fraction of a second, then resumes. “Did you?”
I nod slightly, then laugh. “It didn’t take me long. And it made me feel like a true detective. Poring over microfiches at thelibrary. Calling countrywomen’s associations. Giving just enough to lead to the next call.”
He smiles faintly. “Okay, Sherlock Holmes. I see you.”
I grin, but quickly my expression grows solemn as I get to the next part of the story. Remembering how it ends. “At first, she was really nice. Like,unexpectedlynice. Excited to hear from me, even. Said she’d been waiting for me ever since my twentieth birthday, because she knew that’s when I’d have access to my real birth certificate. That she’d told her family about me. Her husband and her kids, who I guess are my half-siblings.” I let out a small breath.
“I remember thinking—this is it.This is how it’s supposed to go. I was so happy that I wasn’t some dark secret, that she seemed to be happy to hear from me. It gave me this hope that she wanted me to be involved in her life—to be part of a real family.”
I grow wistful, remembering the way those early moments felt. “It was so crazy… I fantasized about this big reunion where they’d welcome me with open arms. Where I’d be invited to family dinners and vacations. That they’d expect me to be there for holidays, and form close bonds with my siblings. Finally, I’d belong. And the craziest part was… there were finally people wholookedlike me! Everyone else looks like their families, and finally I would, too!”Something tight pulls in my chest as I recall what happened next, and how swiftly things changed.
“Everything was going well. But then one day, what felt like out of the blue, she sent me an email.” I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not when I’m about to reveal my greatest shame. “She told me I was the result of an attack—just like that. It happened at a party. She said he tried to do it again the next day, but she managed to get away.” The words feel flat coming out. Like I’ve said them before, and they’ve lost their edges from being repeated too many times.
But that’s just from the torture of replaying them over and over in my head.
He frowns, his brows knitting together. “She…emailedyou that?”
I nod. “Yeah. I remember it coming through in the middle of the day. I was really excited to hear from her, and then when I read it… not so much.” I pause. “Even though I guess it was important for me to know.”
Until he asked that simple question, I hadn’t really registered how strange that was. How callous, casually informing me by electronic mail that I was the product of a rape.
That maybe that was a conversation that would have been better had in person, or at least over the phone where I could hear her voice. Her tone.
Instead, I remember sitting there—at work of all places—learning that I came into the world out of an act of hatred and control. I remember being frozen at the time, plastering on a fake smile while I got up to get ready for my next meeting. Keeping this bombshell to myself for the rest of the day until I could finally get home and let it process just a little.
“I found him, too,” I add, quieter now. “Tracked him down online.”
“Oh wow,” he exhales. “Did you reach out?”
I nod. “Yes. I couldn’t help myself. I believed her—but I needed to know. I needed to see what he’d say—what he was willing to share.”
He waits patiently, not pushing me to continue.
Memories flash back—his incoming messages, referring to his time in that small town as “water under the bridge”. Seeming a little shocked when I just came out and said it—that I thought he might be my father.
“It was weird. Once I confronted him, he asked for a picture.” My fingers curl slightly in my lap. I remember the way my stomach curdled when I saw his request. Like he wanted some kind of creepy souvenir of my birthmother. Wanted a creepy souvenir ofme.
“Oh wow,” he lets out a long breath. “What happened next?” He leans forward, his hand on mine. “Did you send a picture?”
“I found one of my birth mother from closer to that time. I figured there was distance between her and that photo.” I frown, my stomach churning. “I still feel guilty for sending it, but I wanted to send something. I didn’t want to share anything current, of her or me. And I thought that seeing her might lead him to confess or something.” Sheepish, I shake my head. “But after I sent the picture, he just disappeared. Never heard from him again.”
A small shrug.
“Just… stopped responding. I tried again a couple of times to see if he’d answer—if maybe he just missed the photo or my subsequent messages. But he went radio silent.” I let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “I mean—I guess it makes sense. Not exactly something you want to deal with. Especially when you think you got away scot-free for all this time. Goodness knows how many other women he did this to. How many other children he brought into the world this way.”
Silence settles for a second.
I expect Soren to say something reassuring. Something normal. He doesn’t.
Finally, he speaks, his hand squeezing mine. “That wasn’t normal.”
I glance at him. “What?”
His gaze is steady. Focused in a way that makes it hard to look away. “That wasn’t yours to handle. Especially alone.”
My chest tightens slightly. “I mean—it wasn’t great,” I say, shrugging again. “But people go through worse. It’s just?—”
“You’re minimizing it. Don’t do that.” His voice doesn’t rise. Doesn’t sharpen. It just cuts, firm.