“I don’t understand,” I say.

Mom looks at me.

“You know how it was for your father and me,” she says, her voice low. “We’d been trying for a baby for—for so long, Gillian.”

Yes, I think. And Abigail was your miracle. That’s how it was supposed to be; that’s the story I grew up with. Abigail was the miracle baby, and then there was me. Miracle Number Two.

“Your father’s sister,” Mom goes on. “Lorna. The baby of the family—you’ve heard us mention her.” She looks at me. “When Lorna was eighteen, she got pregnant.” Mom hesitates. “I remember when your father told me. He felt guilty, like it was somehow his fault, and meanwhile all I felt was rage. How could this…this child, have everything I wanted? And have it by accident; as a mistake, without ever wanting it? And then…” she goes on, “when your dad said Lorna was going to have the baby adopted, I just…I felt this certainty, Gillian. This rightness. That saying, ‘God works in mysterious ways,’ I’d never really felt it before, but I felt it then, in my bones.” She takes a breath. “I was the one to suggest it to your father—that we’d take her, that she’d be our daughter. He was doubtful at first. Not on his own account: he was worried about me, if it would be fair to me? Would it be better to try and adopt from a stranger, where everything was anonymous? But I was sure. I was just sure.” She looks at me. “You have to understand that. She was wanted, she was so wanted.”

I can hear myself breathing. I’m hearing all the words but I can’t yet believe them. I’m barely conscious of Oliver in the room, but I sense his presence nearby, his disbelief a fainter echo of mine.

“Your dad and I went to the hospital with Lorna. When Abigail”—my stomach jolts to hear my sister’s name, though I’ve been waiting for it—“when Abigail was born and I held her, I’d never loved anyone so much in my life.

“We’d told ourselves,” she goes on, “that we’d tell her when she was older. You have to remember, things were different then. A lot of adoptions were closed adoptions. A lot were kept secret. There were no children’s books or online communities or information about what to tell your child. But we decided when she was old enough to understand, seven or eight maybe, we’d explain things to her.” Mom closes her eyes. “But then we had you.”

The words hit me like a wall. I stare at Mom, and she gazes back at me.