I snort. “And…,” Dad says. He hesitates, glancing at Pops. “Your birth mother would be proud of you, too. I wish we could tell you more about her, but we just don’t know.”

“We do know that she loved you,” Pops says. “Anyone could tell. We tried to stay in contact for as long as we could.”

“I remember you talking about her,” I say. They’re dim memories, but still there. “She really liked the name Simone, right? When you told her, she said it reminded her of—”

“—of Nina Simone,” they finish together. It’s a little spooky. They share another glance before Dad clears his throat.

“We’re so proud of you,” Dad says, squeezing my hand. “You know that, don’t you? We don’t say it all the time, but you have to know.”

I stare at the two of them, the people I don’t look like, but who love me and raised me and taught me how to feel.

“I know,” I say, giving them a small smile. “I love you guys.”

I wait until they leave to read it.