Page 57 of What Goes Around

I was tall and willowy, like Dad, but still… not quite like either of them.

A genetic outlier in my own family.

And then there was the one detail I had ignored for years:

Apple was only eight months younger than me.

Eight months.

Every time I asked, Mom insisted she’d been premature. But there were no pictures of baby Apple in an incubator. No NICU stories. No saved hospital bracelets. No medical keepsakes at all.

Just… nothing.

I stared up at the ceiling, a slow, cold thrum building in my chest.

Something was wrong with this family.

Chapter 17: I Don’t Feel Sorry Anymore

A week slipped by quietly. At least on the surface.

One morning we sat around the breakfast table, eating. The kind of domestic calm that always felt staged.

“Mom,” I said lightly, resting my elbow on the table. “You should really sleep more. I think I see gray hairs.”

Her spine went rigid.

“What? Where?” Both hands flew to her hairline, panic bleeding into her voice.

That reaction, so vain and so immediate, almost made me laugh.

“Come here,” I said, already rising. “Let me check.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, suspicion flickering.

But vanity won.

She turned her back to me, tilting her head just enough for me to look.

I stepped behind her, parting sections of hair with slow, deliberate care, letting the seconds stretch long enough to irritate her.

I could feel her impatience tightening, coiling.

“Well?” she asked finally, voice thin with dread. “Did you find it?”

My fingers closed around a few strands.

I yanked.

She gasped, hand flying to her scalp. “Ow! What was that for?”

I stepped back, apologetic. “Sorry. I thought those were the gray ones.”

“Show me.”

I lifted the strands between us. Brown. Healthy. Untouched by gray. Clean roots.

Perfect for DNA testing.