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My father often called it an art form to be able to hide one’s emotions behind a blank face. It was a skill that I had quickly learned to master after the multiple crushing disappointments my parents had given me.
“Your mother has something to tell you.”
I turned to my mother who pulled out an envelope from seemingly nowhere. It was a large envelope, the kind that contained legal documents no one ever wanted to receive. She slid the envelope toward me, and I eyed it.
“What’s this?”
“It’s from your father.”
I turned to my father. “What is it, dad?”
He shook his head. “It’s not from me.”
“But mom just said that this is from you.”
They looked at each other again. If they did that again, I was going to blow. They were being annoying. With me being forced to be here, I was already irritated and on a short fuse.
“Someone speak.”
My mother patted her mouth with a napkin and sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Richard Vandlewoods is not your biological father. Your biological father’s name was Peter Archer.”
I blinked. What had she just said to me?
A loud silence filled the room, as both my parents watched for my reaction. My mother’s brows knitted together the only sign that she was a little anxious. My father on the other hand showed no emotion at all. Typical.
“Excuse me?” Those were the only two words I could utter.
“I am not your biological father, Maddison. I am your father in all the other ways that count, but you and I do not share the same blood.”
My heart thudded hard in my chest. I could hear the blood rushing past my ears.
Was I hearing this correctly?
I was so shocked and confused, I did the only thing I knew I could do.
I laughed.
I laughed so hard that I had tears welling in my eyes. I laughed so hard, my abdominal muscles became painful. When I sobered up, I looked at my parents.
“You are joking, right?” I smiled, but when they didn’t answer, my smile dropped. “Are you serious?”
“Why would I joke about this, Maddison?”
I looked at the envelope that I only now realized had my name written on it. I looked back up to my parents.
“You aren’t my father.” I pointed to my dad who nodded his head. “And you both lied to me about this my entire life? Why?”
“At the time, it didn’t seem relevant.”
She was kidding, right?
“It didn’t seem relevant?” I laughed humorlessly. “You telling me I look fat every other week is relevant to my life, but you not telling me about myreal fatheris irrelevant to my life? What the fuck, Fiona?!”
“Maddison,” my father reprimanded, “you will not use that language in this house. She is your mother.”
“And apparently you aren’t my father,” I spat. I grabbed the envelope and waved it in the air. “And what does this Peter Archer want from me now? Does he want to see me? Well, he is 27 years too late for that, I’m afraid.”
“He’s dead.”
