“And you agreed?”
“I signed papers in the hospital. They told me it was the only sensible thing to do. I thought we could work something out later. I didn’t understand how final it was.”
“You were 27, not 17.”
She flinched, and I hated myself for it.
But I couldn’t take the words back.
“You’re right,” she said quietly. “I was old enough to say no. I didn’t.”
For a moment, I couldn’t look at her.
I pictured two newborn girls, one carried through our front door and the other taken somewhere else.
I wondered whether my sister had cried the same way I had.
And whether someone had told her she looked like me.
“What was her name?”
“We called her Anna. Her adoptive parents named her Claire.”
“Did you ever see her again?”
“Not when she was little.”
I turned sharply. “What do you mean, not when she was little?”
