She sat at the kitchen island, chatterboxes about her friends and her upcoming exams.

I sat there, watching her.

I watched the way she smiled, the way she gestured with her hands.

For eighteen years, I had believed she was a gift from an adoption agency.

I had believed we were chosen to be her parents.

But looking at her now, with the knowledge of Rose’s existence, I saw things I had never noticed.

She had Richard’s nose.

She had Rose’s high cheekbones and the slight cleft in her chin.

The physical evidence was staring me in the face, hidden in plain sight for nearly two decades.

I felt a sudden, sharp pang of anger.

How could Richard have done this to us?

How could he have brought his biological child into our home under the guise of adoption?

I looked down at my plate, my stomach churning.

I knew I couldn’t keep this from Claire much longer.

She deserved to know who she was.

She deserved to know about the woman who had died in that motel room.