Chapter 1

For twenty years, my family never acknowledged my existence.

But today they all came. The living room was packed.

My dad, my mom, my brother Marcus, Dad's sister Aunt Lesley, Dad's brother Uncle John, and several relatives whose names I couldn't recall.

My mom wore a black dress, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching a tissue in her hand.

When she saw me come in, she stood up, her lips trembling.

"Chloe..."

Twenty years. This was the first time she'd called my name so tenderly.

I looked at her and said nothing.

The lawyer opened his folder.

Everyone was waiting for the will Grandma had left me.

When I was six, I was sent to live with Grandma.

Not the "going to Grandma's for vacation" kind of visit. I stood at Grandma's doorstep with a cloth bag containing two changes of clothes and a pair of canvas shoes, watching my mom's back grow smaller and smaller in the distance.

I didn't cry. A six-year-old doesn't really understand what "being abandoned" means.

I only remember that when my mom left, she was holding Marcus's hand.

Marcus was four that year, wearing a new red winter coat. He held a candied apple on a stick.

He glanced back at me once, then turned his head and continued licking his candied apple.

My mom never looked back.

Grandma stood behind me. After a long time, she sighed.

"Come on, let's go inside."

She took my hand.

"Grandma will make you some spaghetti."

Grandma asked me, "Do you miss Mommy?"

I said, "Yes."

Grandma said nothing and ladled half a bowl of noodles for me.

Later I learned that before my mom dropped me off, she'd said something to Grandma.

"Mom, I'm leaving Chloe with you. We really can't afford to raise two kids."

Can't afford two kids—so why was I the one who had to leave, and not Marcus?

I spent twenty years thinking about that question.

The answer was actually quite simple. Marcus was a son. I wasn't.

Grandma's house was in town. Three tiled rooms with an apple tree planted in the yard.

Not big, but clean.

Grandma was sixty-two then, still in good health. Every morning she'd get up at five, go to the farmers' market to buy groceries, come back to make me breakfast, then take me to school.

In the afternoon she'd wait for me at the school gate, rain or shine.

In summer she'd fan me with a palm-leaf fan. In winter she'd fill a hot water bottle for me.

When I had a fever, she'd carry me to the clinic and stay with me in the hallway at three in the morning while I got an IV drip.

Everything my mom should have done, Grandma did instead.

But I knew Grandma wasn't Mom.

Because every time the school asked me to fill in parent information and I wrote "Grandma," the teacher would give me an extra look.

"Where are your parents?"

"Somewhere else."

"Why don't you live with them?"

I didn't know how to answer.

Later I learned a standard response.

"My parents are busy with work."

Busy with work. So busy they hadn't come to see me more than a handful of times in twenty years.

I remember when I was seven, the school organized a drawing contest for Christmas. The theme was "My Home."

The other kids drew their mom, dad, and themselves—a family of three, holding hands.

I drew Grandma and me. Two people. One apple tree.

The teacher looked at it for a long time and said, "This is really good."

She didn't say "Why are there only two people in your home?" but I saw her eyes turn red.

I kept that drawing for a long time. Later it got lost when I moved.