When the day came, I felt sick, my body buzzing with unease. We arrived early, hearts pounding, rehearsing accusations and questions. And then the door opened. Graham entered quietly, composed, neither afraid nor triumphant. Nora was at his side, her hand trembling slightly. And then she began.
Nora’s voice trembled at first, but steadied quickly. “You’ve both imagined the wrong thing,” she said. “Graham isn’t my boyfriend. He isn’t some stranger trying to take me away.” She looked at us, eyes glistening. “He’s my biological father. The donor. I applied to the agency with a request after I turned eighteen.”