“Listen to yourself, Oliver,” I rage on. “‘I’m just her donor.’ You didn’t donate a used car! You didn’t donate a…a pizza! You donated the building blocks of life, and then that life happened.”

He looks down at the floor.

“I know.”

We’re silent for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I never meant for it to be like this. I understand how it must feel for you, Gillian. Especially the…the timing…”

And now all the indignation I’ve felt on Hannah’s behalf, any urge to defend her, it all falls away. And in its wake all I feel is bitterness: a hard, closed feeling in my chest, as if this bitterness is the only thing I’ll ever feel again.

“You know for sure?” I say quietly. “For sure she’s yours?”

He nods without looking at me. “The DNA percentages are really accurate. And besides, when Jeff told me about her—told me what she’d told him, her date of birth, the way she’d been conceived…there’s no doubt.”

From the little I know about these tests, I know he’s right. He’s Jeff’s only sibling. If the test says Jeff is this girl’s uncle, there’s only one way that can be true.

“Does she want something?” I say.

Oliver looks blankly at me.

“I mean does she want something,” I snap. “I don’t know, Oliver—money or something. What does she want?”

“She doesn’t want anything, Gillian.”

“She wants to meet you,” I point out, which isn’t nothing.

“She’s curious,” Oliver says. “Wouldn’t you be? Her moms said she could do the whole DNA thing when she turned eighteen, but to be prepared that I might not welcome it. She’s been very respectful. She understands I might not want to have contact, and that it’s up to me.”

“But you do want to have contact,” I point out. “You’ve been contacting her.”

Oliver closes his eyes.

“Gillian…she seems like a nice kid. She really does. I owed her more than silence, didn’t I?”

“You owed me more than silence,” I rage. “You owed me the truth about what was going on, Oliver!”

He looks away.

“I know. I should have told you when Jeff told me. I’m sorry, Gill. I freaked out.”

I sit there, silent. I know he’s sorry. I see that. But it doesn’t help: this hurts like hell.

Hannah.

“She’s smart, Gillian. She’s going to Princeton, early decision. Can you believe that?”

I see the flicker of wonder on his face. More than wonder: Pride. Pride at what his genes have achieved. And the pride, I can’t handle.

“Gillian, where are you going?” He looks at me, worried, as I wipe my eyes and yank my purse from the floor.

“Out,” I say. “Don’t follow me.”

*