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I laugh gently, even as the tears roll from my own eyes onto his chest. “That is not the most miraculous part. What happened next delivered me from Hell to Heaven.”
He squeezes me, whispers, “Tell me that because I need to hear the part where you are safe and loved.”
A knot rises in my throat. To tell this part of the story—my rescue and my adoption—is to reveal enough that, if he knows about Mukta Parish, he can put it together.
Though I want to tell him, I’m conflicted. My loyalty is to my family, and it always will be. How can I turn from that simply because this man makes me feel less alone? More than that, he makes me feel… seen.
Even as I open my mouth, I’m not sure what I will do.
23
SEAN
Lying with Dee on my bed, I squeeze her tight and drink in the feel of her smooth skin, the scent of her body—rose and earth––and remind myself again and again that she’s safe. But as many times as I repeat this to myself, I cannot let her go. Thankfully, she puts up with my strong embrace.
I kiss away her tears, grateful for her in a way that makes me a fan of God or angels or whomever gave her the strength to write those letters. Seeing her about to speak, I wait and tell myself that, if she stops now, I won’t press.
She says, “Later that week, the police officer who’d rescued me was working overtime as security for a visiting dignitary, a wealthy woman who championed women’s rights. He told her how he’d saved a girl held prisoner for four years.
“He told her how, after I’d given them my name, he’d learned I was orphaned—my papi, my only family, God rest his gentle soul, had died a year before.
“The woman was curious about me so, instead of going to the gala where she was scheduled to speak, she insisted he take her to the hospital to meet me.”
“That woman adopted you?”
“Yes. Momma told me that, when she arrived at the hospital and saw me, gaunt and haunted, it was love at first sight.”
Pulling back from her, I run my fingers along her cheek. Her honey eyes shine with tears. My heart feels as if it might break. “Can’t blame her.”
She draws in a breath, and I know I’ve rushed ahead, tiptoed into an area that feels right, but is not yet firmed by years of us knowing each other and making that connection.
Wanting to express the words without words, I kiss her. My tongue plays with hers, my lips possess and cherish her with everything I have.
She moans and arches into me.
The feel of her against me, her warm mouth, sends my head spinning and my heart sprinting. She is my miracle.
I cup the side of her face and give myself a moment to catch my breath before saying, “What was it like, walking into a new life?”
She laughs softly, breathlessly. “Strange and thrilling. Scary and magical. Overwhelming and transforming. I went from being alone all the time to being surrounded by people, their open hearts gentle and waiting, ready to hear me. I went from the poorest, most base of situations to being adopted by one of the wealthiest women in the world. Also, one of the most caring women.”
Her eyes seem to be looking past me, past this room, directly into her past. “When I arrived, I’d been desperate for any reassurance that I mattered, and Momma gave that to me. If I walked into her office, no matter what she was doing or what world leader she was speaking to, she stopped for me, her face would light up, and she’d welcome me with open arms.”
A tear winds its way down her cheek. “I used to go to her office to check, nearly every day. My therapist encouraged it, and Momma delighted in it, so I quickly learned Ididmatter. Not only to Momma, but to all of my adopted siblings—children rescued, like me, from tragic situations.”
I’d press her for a name, but I don’t need to. I’m not well-versed on much American high society, but I’ve heard of the Parish family. Heard of Mukta Parish, a woman who champions women’s issues, a woman who adopts children all over the world from difficult backgrounds. I’ve heard of her, aye, but have never given her a second thought. Now, with Dee here, I wonder at this woman who saves hearts, and I pray Sofía one day knows that kind of healing. “How did you get involved in the work you do?”
She frowns and I realize this is where the sharing ends. I tell her, “You don’t need to say.”
She shakes her head. “You’re asking me for the same reason I visited Momma’s office. You want proof that you matter, and me sharing myself with you is that proof.”
My mouth opens to deny it, but I realize she’s right. I wait with a hard knot in my throat.
She shifts, bringing her eyes from looking past me to lookingatme. She stares into my eyes, and I see her hesitation and nearly rush to tell her it’s okay. But I can’t. Not after what she said.
She places her hand against my jaw, runs a thumb along my beard. “At twelve, I flew to a home where I was surrounded by love and understanding. A home where I longed only for one thing—to help free others from situations similar to the one I’d endured; and this, too, Momma gave me.”
“Ah,” I say, freezing as the dominoes all line up. She operates outside the law. “You work for your mum, Mukta Parish. Is that who pays for you to investigate these things?”
