“Maybe I could make Grandma Betty’s shortbread,” I say. We have a well-loved recipe in the weathered wooden recipe box that belonged to Grandma Betty before it was passed to Grandma Helen — my mom’s mom — and then my mom. I just need to find the right shape, which shouldn’t be hard. There’s a giant bin of cookie cutters in the kitchen, many passed down on my mom’s side like the recipes they go with.

“That’s a great idea,” she says. “I can help you in the morning.” She lays a hand on my cheek. “You’re such a good girl, Zoe.”

I give her a weak smile, because while there is a part of me that chafes at this compliment, there is also a part of me that craves those words of praise.

She smiles. “Grandma Betty would be pleased we’re still making her cookies.” She goes off on a tangent about what a hoot Grandma Betty was, how she used to regale Mom with all her wonderful stories about her childhood, their farm, and Mom’s bootlegging great-uncle. And of course all the much-loved recipes she passed down through the generations.

Also passed down among them all is the Wilson widow’s peak. Grandma Betty had it, my grandmother had it, my mother has it, and Jonah has it.

It’s a terrible thing to admit, but I’ve always hated that widow’s peak. It’s just another reminder that they are all real family, and I’m a drop-in. I wonder if I have living grandparents and great-grandparents. And if I do, would they want to claim me? Do they even know about me? When I picture safe haven drop-off situations, I think of a girl (in my head she’s young, maybe even my age) hiding her pregnancy, having the baby in secret, and dropping it off quickly at the safe haven spot, and maybe no one ever knows, or maybe just a friend or two. Did her parents know? My grandparents? Did my birth father know? Will I ever know any of them?

I feel the usual stab of guilt at the unabating feelings of loss and longing, and I push the thoughts aside.

I hug my mom good night, then retreat to my room, where I discover I have messages from Hunter.

I’m sorry for what you’re going through, and even sorrier you never felt you could trust me with it. I wish I understood why. I’ve tried to be understanding, but I guess maybe I’ve fallen short at times. Anyway, I feel pretty shitty about everything.