He turned to my mother, his face contorted with decades of accumulated resentment.
“You lied to me, Diane. You lied to everyone. And now the whole family knows exactly what kind of woman you really are.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
And then I started walking toward the stage.
“You’re right, Gerald.”
My voice was calm as I stepped onto the platform and took the microphone from his hand. He was so surprised he let me.
“The DNA test shows I’m not your biological daughter, and I’m not Mom’s biological daughter either.”
Gerald’s smirk widened. A few relatives exchanged knowing glances, but not because Mom had an affair. The smirk faltered.
I turned to face the crowd. All 60 of them. Every person who’d received that email. Every relative who’d whispered about my mother for years.
“Let me introduce you to someone.”
I nodded toward the side door.
Rachel stepped through. 28 years old. Brown hair. Brown eyes. A jawline that was unmistakably, undeniably towns.
The room erupted in murmurs. Someone dropped a champagne glass. Marcus made a strangled sound.
“This is Rachel Morrison,”
I said.
“She was born 11 minutes before me at St. Mary’s Hospital on March 15th, 1997. The night I was born, there was an accident. A trainy nurse mixed up two babies after bathing them, and the hospital covered it up to avoid a lawsuit.”
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