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But when has delicacy ever been how my family dealt with the world?
“I’m your granddaughter!” I yell, tilting my head back, trying to give the words enough power to pierce through the building between us.
She meets my shout with an extended silence.
“Maybe we should write her a letter or something.” Dash offers the suggestion carefully. “Give her time to process.”
Sure, he makes sense. But I didn’t fly from Nashville to Philadelphia to have a door slammed in my face.
“Is your daughter Vivian?” I holler, not caring if all this ruckus brings her rich-ass neighbors out of their houses to give us dirty looks.
“No. That isnotmy daughter’s name. See? You’re lying to me.”
At least I know she’s still listening to me.
“I have a picture. Is this your daughter?” I hold up my phone toward the peephole. Mom loves posting on social media, especially pictures from when she was in her early twenties. A time she did a superb job at pretending she didn’t have three kids.
“I’m not opening my door!”
I try not to growl in frustration. This is not going at all how I’d imagined.
Pulling on a special piece of knowledge, I bring up the name I saw on a hidden birth certificate. The one that led me here.
“Is your daughter Tsai Mei-ling?” Good bet I butchered the pronunciation.
Another stretch of silence.
“In her defense, that info is probably public record. Anyone trying to scam her could look it up,” Dash whispers.
I grit my teeth and then relax my jaw, acknowledging the truth of his statement.
“How about a man named Bill Lamont?” I bark. “Do you know him?” My voice loses volume as my hope for this situation dwindles.
The door wrenches open.
“Bill Lamont is the devil,” she hisses.
“Then consider us his demon spawn,” I snap back, holding up my phone again now that there’s nothing dividing us. “Is this your daughter?”
Eyes still full of distrust, the woman at least leans forward to squint at the picture. I found one of the few images Mom posted with us kids, all the Lamonts looking downright happy at the zoo. The type of outing a normal family does regularly.
We went once and never again.
“That’s her,” the woman answers, her voice losing the sharp edge of a moment ago. “That’s my Mei-ling.” Still, she doesn’t step out of her doorway to invite us in. Her age-marked fingers grip the wood harder. “But that’s not proof.”
“Hi,” Dash says, waving from his spot on the stoop but not moving closer. Probably worried his over six-foot height will only add to the discomfort of the situation. “We brought some documents that might be helpful.” He holds up a folder, then passes it over.
I already know what’s inside. Copies of our birth certificates. But our mother is listed as Vivian Lamont, and since we weren’t sure if this woman would know that name, Dash also snuck a picture of our mom’s license. That was his fiancée’s idea. Paige works as a book editor and is good at picking out holes in information that would have someone questioning the validity of what they’re reading. Or being told by a stranger.
The woman takes her time looking at the documents, her stare tracing over the printouts, then flicking back up to our faces.
“Your licenses?” she eventually asks.
I decide to take her not slamming the door again as a good sign. Dash and I pull out our IDs and pass them over. When she gives them back, I notice a slight quiver in her hand.
“I have a patio. Behind my house. You walk around there. I’ll be out in a moment.”
Then she shuts the door again.
