“Ooh, and the music!” Sissy ran over to the record player and set down the needle. The music completed the picture, taking her to another place. She could almost smell the ocean and feel the sun warming her skin.

  It was apparent now, the happier she seemed, the happier Mark was. Betsy felt her heart surge with love for him. It was a great responsibility, having someone’s happiness on your shoulders. A responsibility she wouldn’t take lightly.

  This wasn’t the life Betsy had planned for, but she was going to make the best of it. She was lucky, and she wasn’t going to let herself forget it.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Now

  I’M CURLED UP ON THE COUCH WITH THE NPE FACEBOOK PAGE pulled up on my computer when Jeff walks in from work. There are hundreds of new people joining the group each week, and now I find myself among the seasoned members comforting the newbies, letting them know they’re not alone. I never tell them things will be okay, because I know they might not be.

  “I got the mail,” Jeff says.

  I nod and keep typing, finishing up a comment. “You can just put the wedding catalogs in the trash,” I tell him. These days, most of the mail we get are bills and bridal things thanks to whatever vendor sold my name to a wedding mailing list.

  “Already dumped them in the recycling bin,” Jeff says. “What’d you do today?” he asks.

  “Emailed a bunch of recruiters, wrote and rewrote my bio section for LinkedIn, did the laundry, and pondered my existence,” I tell him.

  He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Are you still going to that happy hour thing tonight?” he asks.

  I sigh and lean back into the decorative pillows. “I don’t feel like being reminded that everyone else has a job, or at least freelance work,” I tell him. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “So, you’ve got nothing to lose,” he says, a little too brightly. When I don’t respond he adds, “You won’t find another job if you don’t put yourself out there.”

  I sigh again; he’s not wrong. “Maybe I can start walking dogs or something to help bring a little money in.”

  “It’s not about the money,” Jeff says. “I just want you to be happy.”

  I frown even though I know he’s right. I didn’t think it would be this hard to find a new job, but over forty isn’t exactly a benefit in an industry that puts so much emphasis on being young and hip. “If I go, I’ll have to wash my hair,” I say, only slightly teasing.

  “Don’t do it on my account,” he says. “And here, there was something in the mail for you.”

  My heart leaps at the thought of a letter from my mom. It’s been two days and she hasn’t responded—not by text, by phone, or by email.

  Jeff hands me a brown padded envelope with my name carefully written across the front in familiar handwriting. But it’s not my mom’s.

  I slide my finger beneath the flap of the envelope that’s fastened by one of those fancy wax moldings that has his initials, AA, emblazoned on it.

  Inside, I find a page that looks like it was torn from a sketchbook, complete with the little torn bits of paper on top. The side facing me is blank, but I turn it around and gasp. It’s a drawing, of a woman who looks an awful lot like my mom. Betsy, I think, grateful for this glimpse into the woman my mom used to be.

  In the picture, she’s sitting in a deep chair in what looks like a library. She looks so young and innocent, biting her lip as she reads. I know it’s impossible, but I wish I’d known her back then, before my arrival changed everything, changed her.

  There’s something else in the envelope. I slide out a sheet of ivory paper that’s soft to the touch.

  I unfold the letter slowly, as if I’m unwrapping a gift. Before I read the words, I take in his handwriting—his artfulness apparent in all the details, from the perfect loops in the letters to the lines so straight they could have been drawn by a ruler. I take a deep breath, then start to read.

  Paige,

  I got your thank-you email, and I apologize for not writing back right away. When it comes to communication that really matters and face-to-face isn’t an option, I prefer a written letter. It really is a lost art—but I digress.

  It took me a few days to grasp the gravity of our situation. I have a daughter. A daughter. You know how there are things in life you never knew you always wanted, but once you have it, you can’t imagine how you considered the world any other way? That’s how this feels to me.

  I hope I’m not coming on too strong. While you’re the only daughter in my life, I know you already have a dad. From what I can remember, he was a great man—he had to have been to raise such a lovely young woman.

  I’ve been reminiscing a lot about those days, about the person I was, the person your mom was. She really was something special. I see a lot of her in you. I found this drawing in an old sketchbook and thought you might like to have it. She was already pregnant with you that day, although I obviously didn’t know it at the time, and I’m not sure she did, either.

  This is turning into a longer note than I intended, but I wanted to thank you. For coming to see me, for hearing me out, and for opening my eyes to a part of life I never thought would be possible for me.

  I say this with love for you and the utmost respect for the man who raised you, but I would be grateful for any role you’d like me to play in your life. Again, it’s not my intention—nor would it ever be possible—to replace your dad. I’d be happy to just be your Andy.

  All my love,

  Andy

  I read through the letter again and then once more before handing it over to Jeff, who has migrated back in from the kitchen. I watch his face change, softening as he reads. The corners of his mouth lift in a smile, and he looks up at me, his eyes watering.

  I’m waiting for him to say something, but he turns and walks into our bedroom.

  “Jeff?”

  How can he read that letter and not say something? Anything?

  I’m about to get off the couch and follow him into the bedroom when he comes back into the living room. The letter from Andy isn’t the only thing in his hand.

  “You have to,” he says, handing me one of our last wedding invitations. “He’s your Andy.”

  My eyes well with tears, and I can’t wait for my fiancé and my DNA Dad to meet. For real this time.

  I take the wedding invitation from his outstretched hand and reach for a pen to address an envelope to Andy and Patrick.

  Mom will forgive me; she’ll have to. And even if she doesn’t, I have to do it anyway. Because as much as I thought this was about her, it’s not. It’s about me, and getting to know the person who is half the reason I’m alive to walk down the aisle in the first place.

  MAKING MY WAY to the second floor of Quartino’s, I can feel butterflies going crazy in my stomach. It would be so much easier if Maks were here to do the small-talking for me. I wish Girlsday, the group for women in advertising hosting this event, allowed gay men to join.

  Turning the corner, I remind myself that I have faced more in the last four weeks than I have in the last four years. If I can meet my DNA Dad face-to-face, then surely I can handle a little schmoozing and networking. Because rent isn’t cheap, and Jeff is right: a new job won’t find me if I keep camping out on the couch.

  “Paige?” I smile, happy to see a friend from the Creative Circus, the grad school I attended after college. “It’s so good to see you,” she says. “Where are you working these days?”

  And there it is: the career equivalent to Why aren’t you married? or When are you going to have kids? I smile through the discomfort, reminding myself that people won’t think of me for a job or freelance opportunity if they don’t know I’m available.

  “I’m in between jobs at the moment,” I tell her.

  A frown crosses her face for less than a second, but it’s impossible to miss. Before she makes a sad comment to go along with her sad face, I say something that’s almost guaranteed to turn her expression around. “It’s actually been great,” I lie. “It’s given me a lot of time to plan my wedding.”

  I lift my hand to show the diamond that would be much sparklier if I’d actually gone to the jeweler’s to have it cleaned instead of just talking about it.

  “O.M.G.!” she squeals. Her voice is so high-pitched I think it might have damaged my eardrums. Now I remember why we didn’t stay in touch after graduation. “Congratulations!”

  Her ruckus attracts the attention of a few other women I recognize from attending these events over the years, and soon, two other women are gathered around my hand to get a closer look.

  The universe must have decided it owes me one, because just then, I lock eyes with Helen Jacobs, a creative director I worked for almost ten years ago. She smiles and nods toward the empty barstool next to her.

  “Excuse me,” I say, pulling my hand back. “I’m going to grab a drink.”

  I make a beeline toward Helen and give my old boss a hug.

  “Tell me what’s new?” she says in lieu of hello, and I instantly remember why I liked her so much. You never had to wonder where you stood with Helen.

  “Well . . .” I stall, not wanting to disappoint her. She was a mentor to me, and all I have to show for it is a weekly unemployment check. “I’m engaged,” I tell her.

  “Congrats.” Helen takes a sip of her martini before adding, “And . . .” in a tone that makes it clear she’s more interested in my professional accomplishments.

  I smile, remembering one particular late-night conversation when we were working on a new business pitch for a brand of birth control. We talked about how society puts too much focus on marriage. As someone who was proudly married to her job, Helen didn’t understand what the big fuss was about. I remember blushing as she told me she was having more and better sex than most of the married men in our office, including the ones who had a side piece.

  I signal the bartender, buying a little more time to think of what “and” to tell her. I know being laid off is nothing to be ashamed of, especially in the advertising industry, but I don’t want to tell her all the tired lines, and I know she doesn’t want to hear them, either.

  For a brief second, I consider telling her about everything going on. She would definitely give it to me straight—not that I think Maks or Margaux or Jeff are ever dishonest with me, but they see things from a place of love. And I could definitely use an objective, outside opinion.

  After I order my vodka soda with a splash of cranberry, I turn back to Helen. “And . . . I recently found my biological father who I didn’t know existed until FamilyTree.com told me so,” I say with as little fanfare as if I was asking her to pass the sugar.

  “Huh,” Helen says. “So you didn’t know who he was before?”

  I shake my head and take a sip of my drink. “I didn’t even know there was anyone to know about before. Until a few months ago, I would have told you my father was Mark Meyer.” I realize my mistake as soon as the words are out of my mouth. “I mean, he’s still my father in every other meaning of the word, just not biologically.”

  Helen nods slowly, and I get a sense of déjà vu. Except it’s not an advertising campaign she’s trying to wrap her head around; it’s my life. “So, what happened? They emailed you—‘Hello, meet your birth father!’?”

  I smile. It’s easier to talk about than I imagined it would be. “More or less.”

  Over two more drinks while people network around us, I tell Helen the whole story from the confusion of the first email to my mother’s denial, Maks’s Googling, my ambush bachelorette party, and, finally, the argument with my mother.

  “Heavy,” Helen says.

  I laugh, because it is heavy, but the load feels lighter having shared it. “It’s the weirdest feeling,” I tell her. “Everything I thought I knew about who I was and where I came from is suddenly gone. It’s like my life story has been wiped clean and now it’s just a book of blank pages.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Helen says. “The only blank pages in your life story are the ones yet to be written.”

  I nod, taking in her perfect turn of phrase. Maybe it’s not too late for me to write a new chapter. I’ve wasted enough time waiting for someone else to write it for me. After all, it’s my story.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Now

  ONE, TWO, THREE, ONE, TWO, THREE,” STEPHANIE, THE DANCE teacher at May I Have This Dance, counts as Jeff and I awkwardly spin on the dance floor. The lessons were a wedding gift from Maks and Margaux after I told them we weren’t planning to have a traditional “first dance.”

  They both vetoed our song, and we settled on Garth Brooks’s cover of Dylan’s “To Make You Feel My Love.” The song is sweet and slow and easy to dance to—and seeing as I have two left feet, the simpler the better.

  “One, two, three,” Stephanie says again, and Jeff spins me out. This time, I manage to keep holding his hand. I smile, proud of myself.

  “Good job,” Stephanie says as I spin back toward Jeff’s open arms.

  This is my favorite part of the dance, where we sway back and forth, holding each other, before he dips me at the end. I tried to protest that last move, but Stephanie convinced me it would be a beautiful photo op.

  “Let’s take five, then we’ll go again,” Stephanie says.

  Jeff gives me a kiss before heading to the water cooler, and I go to check my phone even though I know there won’t be any missed calls. At least not one from the person I want to hear from.

  I know I said I would call if I didn’t hear from her by yesterday—but I’m scared I can’t fix this. We’ve never had a great relationship, but I don’t want to have no relationship with her. She’s my mother, and unless I count Andy, she’s the only parent I have left. I should have kept my big mouth shut.

  “You okay?” Jeff asks, handing me a small paper cup of water.

  “Just thinking about my mom.”

  Jeff nods. He’s been good about listening and careful about not offering too much advice. As much as I would love for him to tell me what to do, I know this is something I need to work through myself.

  “I keep coming back to something Helen said the other night,” I tell him. “She said it might be easier if I try to think of my mom not as she is now but as the young girl she used to be.”

  “Betsy,” Jeff says thoughtfully.

  I nod, thinking of the nineteen-year-old girl in the drawing from Andy. The girl who was afraid and scared. I think about the choices she had and how by choosing my dad, she was choosing me. She loved me before she even knew me, so hopefully she can find a way to forgive me. If I can find a way to ask.

  “I’m not mad at her anymore,” I tell him. “But I think I had a right to be, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” he says, smart enough not to disagree.

  “Is it wrong that I want her to admit that?”

  Jeff frowns for a moment, considering my words. “It’s not wrong,” he says. “But I don’t know if it’s worth drawing a line in the sand over. It’s in the past, and if you ask me, the future matters more.”

  I nod, knowing he’s right. “I just don’t know how to start the conversation.”

  “By picking up the phone?” he suggests.

  “I don’t think this is a phone type of conversation,” I tell him.

  “FaceTime?”

  I smile at the thought of my tech-unsavvy mother trying to figure out how to FaceTime. The last time we tried it, to show her the engagement ring after Jeff proposed, we spent the first half of the call staring at her ear as she held the phone up to her head.

  “I think it needs to be in person,” I tell him. “Think it can wait two weeks until the wedding?”

  Jeff shakes his head, and I know he’s right. But I’m still not sure what to do about it.

  “Rested up, lovebirds?” Stephanie asks, walking back in the room. “Let’s run through one more time and see if you’ve got it.”

  Jeff takes my hand and I smile, ready to dance with my groom. At least I know one thing at the wedding won’t be an utter disaster.

  AFTER OUR LUNCH-HOUR dance class, Jeff goes back to work and I go back to my office: the couch. With Maury Povich on in the background, I write Helen an email, thanking her for the conversation and the offer to send my portfolio on to a friend she thought might be hiring.

  I hit send, feeling more accomplished than I have in weeks. Once the wedding is over, I really need to focus on what’s next. And if I can’t find a job at a traditional agency, then maybe I need to open myself up to new possibilities. Going client side, or maybe even starting my own thing. If Margaux can do it, maybe I can, too.

  Instead of going back to check the NPE Facebook group again, I open another blank email.

  The cursor blinks, as if daring me to say something.

  Hi, Mom.

  I stop typing, and the cursor continues to blink, taunting me. If I send her an email asking her to talk, she could say no. Or she could say nothing at all. But this is too important, for both of us. And like my dad used to say, a big apology needs a big gesture.

  AN HOUR LATER, I’m standing outside Maks’s office building, waiting for him to come down.

  He smiles when he sees me. “What’s the fire drill?” he asks.

  “I’m going on a little road trip and could use some company,” I tell him.

  “You don’t have a car,” he reminds me.

  I nod to the rental car parked on the street. “Want to go see me grovel and beg my mother for forgiveness?”

  Maks pretends to clear out his ears. “Sorry, bad connection,” he says. “Can you repeat yourself?”

  “Are you coming or not?” I ask. When he doesn’t make a move, I put my hands on his forearms and look into his brown eyes. “I might need a push.”

  His face softens, and he smiles. “I’ll always be your pusher,” he says. “Just give me four minutes.”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Then

  BETSY SWORE THEIR KITCHEN HAD BEEN BIGGER WHEN SHE AND Mark moved in. Then again, she had been a lot smaller seven months ago.

 

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