Dad clears his throat. “Hana’s mom was born at the camp—conditions were brutal. Not enough food. No medicine. She almost died. What we did to those people was tragic, a crime, but it was abysmal when they got out, too—lots of prejudice and cruelty perpetrated on folks who were just as American as you and me.” There’s grit in Dad’s voice. He takes a gulp of water and continues, “After three years, the Japanese returned to High River. Some of the folks they trusted refused to return their land; argued that they’d worked it for three years so it was now theirs. The Japanese had signed it over, legally, and given the times and the war, courts weren’t too favorable even if they could scrape together the money to seek justice. Many of those good people lost their land. Their legacy.”

Dad finally looks at me after his last word. Legacy.

“Your grandfather?” Thomas asks.

“Not only gave Hana’s family back their land, he helped finance the machinery they needed, their employees, insurance, the works, until they got back on their feet,” Dad says.

“Good man,” Thomas notes.

Dad nods. “There was a deep friendship and loyalty between our families. Hana’s and my parents grew up together. When we started dating, they agreed it was fate at a time when marriage between culturally different folks wasn’t universally accepted. We combined our orchards when we married. Hoped to have a large family to pass it down to—”

“But Mom couldn’t have children of her own,” I finish. “So they ended up with me.” My dad’s lips pucker like he’s bitten into a lemon. Mom gets up, clears the dishes. She rinses plates and loads the dishwasher. I consider helping but decide against it. In ninth grade science I learned that if you place the same poles of two magnets together, they repel. That’s the way we’ve always been.

Thomas says, “My father died when I was a kid, but I imagine he might’ve wanted me to follow in his footsteps and be a lawyer, too.”

“An honorable profession,” Mom intones, her back to us.

“Did you think about adopting more children?” Thomas asks.

I applaud. “Great idea! You should’ve kept at it until you found the right one.”

Dad grimaces. “When we started the foster process, we were in our late forties, already considered too old to adopt.”

“Then how’d you end up with me?” I needle.

He rubs his mouth. “Luck, I guess.”

He’s lying. Why?

Dad drains his second beer. “Any other questions?”

I shake my head.

“Huh,” Thomas says. “So you never saw any signs, when she was a kid, that Sylvie was . . . different?”

Mom snaps, “I told you, no.”

Dad says, “If you’re asking if we thought Sylvie could read minds or whatever, the answer is never. She was a normal kid. A good kid.”

The clear implication is that I’m no longer normal or good. Thomas glances at me. I give him a bruised smile. But this is nothing new. Hearing it up close and personal stings, but it also kicks Thomas even further into my corner. After twenty-four hours with my parents, he just might drop me from his exposé out of pure pity. I’ll take what I can get if it means saving myself.