Instead, on Tuesday morning, when I knew my dad had a regular cardiac rehabilitation appointment at the hospital, I waited in the back of the parking lot until I saw my parents’ silver BMW pull into a temporary parking spot designated for patient drop off. After they went inside, I drove up to the curb so that when my mother emerged, she would see me immediately.

Five minutes later she was as surprised as I’d expected, opening the passenger door and peering inside immediately. “Are you okay? The girls?”

“I need to talk to you. Please get in.”

“But I’m parked—”

“I know. I saw you drive up. I’ll take you back to your car when we’re done.”

She frowned. “I’m not really dressed for—”

“We’re just going to walk. Please get in.”

She frowned, but she lowered herself to the seat and slammed the door, grabbing for her seat belt. “This must be about Wendy. Is she—”

I cut her off. “I haven’t heard anything new, but yes, it’s about Wendy. It’s about you. It’s about me. We’re going over to Glade Springs Park, unless you have some major objection.”

She didn’t answer, so I didn’t change course. Neither of us spoke until I had parked my Civic at the end of a row and gotten out. As Mom emerged, I opened the back door and got out Diana Gordon’s yearbook and slid it under my arm. I met her on the sidewalk. She glanced at the yearbook, then focused her eyes straight ahead.

I started walking. “I thought we’d take the path along the lake. It’s shady, and long enough for this conversation.”

“You have certainly piqued my curiosity. You seem angry.”

“I don’t know what I am.”

I started down the sidewalk, choosing the lake fork once we reached the path. The morning was gray and cool, the air scented with the possibility of rain later in the morning. Not a lot of people were in sight, although the ten-thousand-steps crowd would probably arrive when the skies cleared.

“You need to slow down,” my mother said after a few minutes.

I didn’t realize how fast I’d been walking. I stood and waited for her to catch up. My mother looked tired today, and even though, as usual, she had taken the time to apply makeup and add a long silver chain over her cotton sweater, both seemed haphazard. Despite my sense of betrayal, I felt a pang of sympathy for her. She had a lot on her plate. Dad, Wendy, and now, having to deal with mysterious me.

I wondered if the weight of all these problems reminded her of the day my sister had announced she was going to have a baby. Had Mom and Dad learned of the pregnancy before Wendy graduated? Lying in bed last night after looking up my father on the internet, I’d done the math. I had been born in January—unless that, too, was a lie—and I had been two months premature. Give or take a week, most likely I was conceived right before or after Wendy donned her cap and gown.