Her hair was cut shorter these days. Wrinkles of exhaustion framed her eyes. She appeared more aged than the lady in the picture, yet there was zero uncertainty. It was truly her. She seemed as though reality had eventually caught up with her, though not in a manner that brings inner growth.
“Gavin,” she spoke, her tone calm and unwavering. “It has been quite a while.”
“Yeah,” I replied, hardly louder than a breath. “It really has.”
An odd, almost movie-like quiet fell between the two of us. I held out for a reaction. Crying, a display of regret, or literally any clue that this meeting was as important to her as it was to me. I had pictured this scenario a hundred distinct times. I frequently fantasized that she would weep upon seeing me, that she would pull me into a hug and murmur apologies for being absent my whole existence.
However, Miranda performed none of those actions—not a single drop of water, not even a brief flash of guilt.
Rather than that, she dug inside her purse and withdrew a yellow paper folder.
“This belongs to you,” she announced, as if she were passing me a piece of junk mail. Following that, she stated, with an overly cheerful tone, “It is a special treat!”
I glanced down at the package. It was completely open. My hands shook as I pulled it apart, quickly noticing the heavy feeling of my father standing at my back, silent and solid.
Tucked inside was a genetic report.
