“Did you . . . did you ever consider sending me back?”

“Not once.”

Sylvie sharply exhales. “So Mom is the only one who knows about my past, foster care, my birth parents?”

“She doesn’t know much.” Wess runs a hand over his grizzled chin. “Look, Hana did ask about your past. Anyone would. She was told that if she made a fuss, our petition to adopt could be denied. She pressed a bit more and learned that the story about the plane crash had been created to protect you. That kind of thing only happens if the birth parents were really bad people, reprehensible. The caseworker said she wanted to give you a fresh start, a bright future. She called it divine intervention, God’s work. That was enough for your mom.”

“What was the caseworker’s name?” I ask.

“I don’t recall,” Wess says. “It was decades ago.”

He scuffs a boot along the dirt. “Sylvie, if your mom thought that adopting you was somehow criminal or immoral? You know her. She wouldn’t have done it. The adoption went through very quickly. Both Hana and I, we felt fortunate for the chance. The idea that I couldn’t love another man’s child disappeared that first night as we sat making paper animals, your tiny face scrunched with determination. You were my daughter.”

Sylvie looks away, sniffs. “I understand. But I need to know where I came from.”

Wess demands, “Isn’t it enough that you’re a Young?”

“It matters. But—”

“But the fact that a journalist wants to write an article about you matters more? Sylvie, you don’t even know him. I got the impression from your agent that Thomas doesn’t have your best interests at heart.”

They’re talking like I’m not even here. But her dad is no fool.

Sylvie finally meets his gaze. “It’s not about him or his article. That’s what started things, but I’ve realized that I need to know. For me.”

Wess reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a tattered manila envelope, lumpy at one end. He holds it out to Sylvie. He was prepared for this; he knew his daughter would try to talk to him one last time.

“This is all you came with,” Wess says. “Your mom kept it in the bottom of her jewelry box all these years. I have no idea what’s inside.”

Sylvie clears her throat. “Thank you, Dad—”

He jerks the envelope out of reach before she can take it. “Think hard before you open it. You did come with problems. Big ones. I know that much. And the woman who brought you that day said your past was filled with darkness. Sylvie, whatever you escaped was ugly.”

A cold breeze blows through the orchard. Sylvie shivers. She holds up her left hand, the faded scar visible in the faint light. “Did I get this here?”

“No. You came with it. You must’ve been a lefty before it happened. Your mom worked hard to make your handwriting legible.” Wess holds out the envelope.