Betty considers this but shakes her head. “No. This is a good thing. It might bring up a lot of memories, but they’re not all bad. This is a second chance for all of us, including you. We’re getting a little bit of our Drew back, and in turn, maybe we can give you some of the family you’re missing. My son, Peter, was James and Andrew’s father. He and their mother, Annabeth, died in a plane crash when the boys were very little. The boys came to live with me before James was even old enough to really remember his parents. The three of us were peas in a pod. But after Andrew was gone, it left a hole in our small family. I have a feeling you’ll be the perfect fit.”

I inhale sharply, then release my breath long and slow. I can do this. I can be brave. “I’d like that.”

“Now. How about I show you some photos of your father?” Betty pulls out a weathered photo album from her shelf, and I’m treated to pictures of a stranger who looks a little bit familiar. It’s the weirdest thing, seeing my eyes on a scrawny teenage boy’s face. Andrew reminds me of the guys on the cover of my mom’s old Relient K CDs. Puka shell necklaces and frosted hair tips. Baggy jeans and layered T-shirts. There’s one where Andrew—my dad—has his arm slung around the shoulders of a younger boy with sandy hair—my uncle, James. Both are hamming it up for the camera. My dad is wearing a T-shirt that reads: SATAN IS A NERD. I gasp. “Oh my gosh, I have that exact T-shirt! My mom gave it to me!”

I lift my head to look at Betty. “It’s in my suitcase. It’s my favorite! I wear it so much, it’s almost gone threadbare in places!” I try to remember back. “I used to sleep in it when I was little. I’m…” I trail off, a little overwhelmed. “It was his,” I whisper. “She never told me it was his.”

My eyes well up, and I swipe at the hot tears overflowing onto my cheeks. All my life, I’ve had something of my dad’s and I never even knew. My mom never said where it came from. Only that it was an old shirt she’d found. Did he give it to her? Or did she steal it to remember him by? I shake away the thought. My mom is not a romantic. She must have found it after the fact.

Did she hide it from my da—my stepdad? Or did he, like with everything else, know all along? Somehow that thought makes it worse.