We mailed the samples and soon forgot about them.
The results were sent directly to Susan, and I hadn’t seen them yet. The day they arrived, something about her felt off.
She barely spoke during dinner. Whenever I looked at her, she kept her eyes fixed on her plate. Then she turned to Chris and asked if they could talk privately. Just the two of them.
I stayed in the kitchen while they went down the hallway. I heard the door close, followed by low voices… and then unmistakably, Susan crying.
I had no idea what was happening.
About twenty minutes later, Chris returned holding a folded sheet of paper.
“Read this,” he said, placing it in front of me. “The result is interesting. You’ll find it very interesting.”
The report was only one page. I read the first section twice before the words arranged themselves into something my brain could understand.
Parent-child match. Confidence level: 99.97%.
The maternal line listed… my name.
I looked up at Chris. He was watching me carefully as I read.
“The hospital listed in Susan’s adoption file,” he said. “You mentioned it once—the night we talked about the baby you gave up. I didn’t think much about it at the time. I was barely paying attention… until I checked the adoption file again just now.”
I didn’t respond. I already knew what he was about to say.
“It’s the same hospital, Krystle,” Chris finished quietly. “The same year. The same month.”
The paper in my hands suddenly felt impossibly heavy. The room had fallen completely silent.
Susan was standing in the hallway.
I don’t know how long the three of us stood there without speaking.
Susan was the first to move. But she didn’t step toward me—she moved backward, pressing herself against the wall as if she needed something solid behind her. Her face was filled with conflicting emotions, and I recognized every one of them because I had worn them myself for the past 15 years.
“She’s been here,” Susan whispered. “She was here the whole time.”
“Susan… baby…” Chris began.
“No, Dad! She was here. My mother… she was right here.”
