It’s raining so hard the porch light looks like it’s underwater. When I open the door, my sister is standing there, drenched, one hand gripping a manila envelope, the other clasping a little girl’s fingers. “This child isn’t ours,” Megan whispers. “Not anymore.” Her voice shakes. Mine disappears. We tumble inside. Lewis takes the little girl—Ava—to the living room and turns on cartoons. I make tea we won’t drink. Megan opens the envelope like it’s burning her palms. DNA results. Letters. A legal stamp that makes the room tilt. “We did a test,” she says. “For family history, medical stuff....
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