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

“Good thing, too, since there’s no hope for you,” Mimmy replies sweetly.

“All I ever want to be is a Silversmith,” I say, and looking around the table at the two of them, those words have never felt truer. “I never want to know.” The words, the proclamation, they aren’t planned. Even I’m stunned by my own conviction. But I have no doubts. “I never want to know which one of you is biologically half me. Because it doesn’t matter. It never mattered. I was silly to ever think that it did.”

Mama makes a strange sound, somewhere between a snort and a sob, hand pressed against her lips. Mimmy is beaming at me like I just won the Nobel Peace Prize and made her the proudest mother in the universe.

We don’t say anything for a moment. We just stare at each other, eyes all pink and shiny with tears. Even Mama’s.

“You weren’t silly,” Mimmy says finally, dabbing at her damp cheeks with a napkin. “You were curious. Exploring your identity. That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Ever.”

“Maybe not. But either way, this summer taught me a lot, good and bad. And I know the truth now. The one that matters, at least. You are both my moms, equally. You are my family. Period. No scientific evidence needed.”

“We are family.” Mama stands up, walking over to wrap me up tight in her strong, trembling arms. “And family is everything.”

Family.

Not just the family we’re born into, a random collection of chance and odds and good old-fashioned luck. But the family we create. The people we choose for ourselves. Our people.

That family—it really is everything.

Chapter Nineteen

MAYBE your family only got bigger this summer, Mimmy had said.

Marlow is back on our porch the next morning, happily working through a plate of lemon bars. She showed up with no warning, appearing along the edge of the woods as I sat in my rocking chair sipping iced tea. I wondered at first if I was imagining it—if Mimmy’s words had forced her into my subconscious. But no, she gave a small wave and walked closer, until she was coming up the steps, then she was on the porch next to me, sitting in Mama’s chair. She was real. Marlow Jackson. Dressed in a plain black T-shirt and artfully distressed denim short-shorts, and this time with a hint of mascara on her naturally long lashes. Still subdued, but like her usual life force was slowly recharging.

“No real sugar? You’re messing with my head,” she says, licking the buttery crumbles from her fingertips. “I feel like I’m dancing in a happy, sunny field of sugar when I eat these things.”

“A little raw honey and coconut oil. Magic, right?”

“Total magic.” She takes another bite, closes her eyes as she swallows. Just like Max does. I wonder what she sees then—if she sees brilliant swirls of color like he does. I want to ask, but it feels like too intimate a detail. “You know how lucky you are, right? Growing up with a mom who makes food like this all the time? I mean, damn.”

Damn. Is she allowed to curse? Did I curse at her age? I’m sure I did. But if I was a real older sister, would it still be my duty to say something?

I’m not, though. Not a real sister. Not even a real half sister.

“My mom hasn’t really made anything but microwave popcorn and frozen dinners since we got here. She didn’t cook much in Philly either, but at least we had a thousand places that delivered. So her kitchen skills didn’t matter much. But now? I ate cold soup straight out of the can yesterday. Cold soup, Calliope. It was very sad.”

“You must miss the city so much,” I say gently—hoping this will steer the conversation to the move without me outright asking.

“Yeah. Most stuff. But…” She stares down at the half-empty plate, an odd look on her face. I wonder if the lemon bars she ate might all come back up. At least the porch is easy enough to hose off. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m ready to leave either.”

I can’t help it—I feel myself soar up above this porch at those words. The sky today is an electric bright blue, the kind of sky that makes you believe in all the best things. I should want Marlow to be home, to be happy. But what if Green Woods could be that place?

“Has it been decided? Are you leaving?”

She shakes her head. Takes another bar and jams it in her mouth.

“School starts soon,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Dad wants to give it more time. Mom wants to leave.” She shrugs, swallowing her last bite and putting the plate down on the porch railing. “Mom usually wins, though she never really wins, you know?”

I nod. It breaks my heart for Joanie. For Marlow and Max. For all of them. Being a family shouldn’t have to be about winners and losers.

“What do you think we should do?” she asks, and I am so startled by the question that I slam the back of the rocking chair against the wall of the house.

Every part of me wants to say: Stay. Stay here with me. I want to know you.

Is that purely selfish, though?

Or is that maybe the best thing for Marlow, too? And for Max, even if he’s not able to accept it yet?

Maybe we need this chance to know each other. To exist in one another’s lives.

Maybe this whole awful summer happened for a very good reason.

It’s not what Elliot signed up for when he chose to be a donor. It’s not what my moms signed up for either. I realize that. This isn’t traditional. But then again, who gets to define what’s traditional about any of this?

“I want you to be happy,” I say, because Marlow is staring at me and I have to say something. And I could stop there. I should, probably. But then: “I