The People We Choose by Katelyn Detweiler (best selling autobiographies .TXT) 📕

think about that fireplace mantel—the nails where somebody might have cared enough at one time to hang stockings and garlands. “I have one more question. Then I’m done, I promise. You can eat in peace. But your dad, did he carve the banisters? The fireplace? Or was that there when they moved in?”

The lines in his face ease. There’s a small flicker of light in his eyes. “That was him. It was his wedding gift to my mom. He was so talented, my dad. Makes it all even sadder, doesn’t it? I don’t remember when he stopped carving, but it was a shame. I think Max inherited some of that talent, though. And that precision and drive. Hopefully that’s all he inherited from his grandfather.”

“Thank you. For—telling me all that. You didn’t have to. I’m sure it wasn’t easy.”

“It’s okay. Being here in Green Woods, in that house, it brings it all back. It’s not just you. I haven’t faced any of it since I was eighteen. Just a kid. Maybe if I’d talked to people about it more, I’d be less of a mess.”

The waitress brings our nearly identical plates. We eat without talking. I don’t think either of us is capable of pleasantries.

My grandfather wasn’t a murderer after all. But he was an angry drunk. And my grandmother died because of him, just as Max said. It’s hard to imagine Elliot, fourteen years old, a boy still, watching his mom die. Spending the next four years with a man he’d never forgive. None of it’s an excuse for being a shitty husband and father. But I understand him more now. I wish he’d worked through his demons sooner, or at least tried. For his family.

Our plates are both empty, and we’ve drunk more cups of coffee than I can count. I feel the jitters snaking through my veins. I want to leave, but I also don’t. Once was one thing, but I don’t know that there will be other breakfasts. This could be it.

“Just give it some time,” he says, leaving a pile of bills at the end of the table. When I reach for my purse, he waves me off. “I hope you can be friends again someday. You and Max. It’d be a shame if you two had to be strangers after this.”

“I hope so, too. But he’s busy running away from the truth right now. Away from me.”

Elliot nods slowly. “I know. We talked about it. Max and me. The one conversation we did have this past week. We sat down with Joanie to tell her. And then—Marlow.”

Marlow.

I’ve been so busy mourning Max and me, I’ve almost completely forgotten about the other half-sibling involved. She was only a fleeting thought. I made this all about me and us and tuned everything else out.

Marlow.

“It was a shock. For all of them. As you can imagine.”

“Yeah. Max said it was pretty ugly. Do they hate me?”

“You?” He frowns, shaking his head. “Not at all. The wrath is all focused on me, as it should be. Joanie was upset she never knew about me donating, but it was before I met her. Not exactly first-date conversation—explaining I didn’t want to ever have kids, but I’d donated so other people could. I knew at that point there’d been a confirmed pregnancy from the donation. It was the only confirmation I ever received, for the record. And then a few months later Joanie was pregnant. Quite the surprise for both of us. That was the only baby I could think about. I should have told Joanie sooner, though. I haven’t been honest enough with her, about this, about lots of things. We’re not fighting because of you, Calliope. We’re fighting because I’ve had a bad habit of keeping things to myself. Of not putting in the work to be a better partner and father.”

I let that sit for a minute. Spin my empty mug in a circle. It’s a lot to take in: No other donor pregnancies. Elliot’s admission of guilt. “And Marlow? Is she… curious about me?”

“I think so. But she’s a tough one. Acts tough, anyway.”

A sister. I have a half sister who lives next door. A half sister I know nothing about, except that she loves her shoes and dresses.

“Should we head out?” he asks.

“Sure.”

The drive home is quiet. When he pulls up to my house, I’m preparing goodbye lines in my head. He shuts the car off. I turn to look at him, but his eyes are focused straight ahead. “Are your moms home?”

I debate lying, saying they’re both at the studio. Most Saturday mornings they do work, but they’ve been using subs for more shifts. To be around for me, they didn’t have to say. Mimmy made a point yesterday of telling me they’d taken off today to tackle some end-of-summer yard work.

“I was thinking,” he continues when I don’t respond, “that I could pop in and introduce myself. A quick hello, shake their hands. Nothing big. It just feels a bit odd, doesn’t it? We’re neighbors, too, after all.”

He’s right. Mama asked again this week about meeting him, and Mimmy shot her a warning glance. Said it was up to me, on my terms. Knowing Mama, she’ll ask again soon.

Both cars are parked in the driveway. It would be hard to lie anyway.

“Okay.” I’m sweating already, even in the car’s lingering AC.

“Okay.”

We walk toward the house and I push the door open, hoping fervently that they’re strolling in the woods or out on their bikes. But no such luck. Mimmy’s cheerful face appears instantly in the kitchen doorway.

“Hey, sweetheart, you slipped out this morning! We were wondering where—” Mimmy’s mouth is still open, but the words stop coming. “Oh.”

“This is Elliot Jackson,” I say awkwardly, as if it’s not immediately evident.

“Oh.” She is frozen in place, a dishrag hanging from the tips of her fingers. The only movement is the sporadic drip of excess water from the rag. She grips the cloth tighter, more