Chapter 3: Last Resort
This pull-out couch at Aunt Linda's is basically torture. But honestly? That's not even my biggest problem right now.
I'm hunched over my laptop, tissues everywhere, trying not to smell Aunt Linda's weird lavender detergent on everything. Our house is getting rebuilt, so we're all crashing here temporarily. Guess who got stuck with the living room while Sierra scored the actual bedroom?
Yeah. Shocking.
I type "how to find biological parents" into Google and suddenly my screen's flooded with all these happy reunion stories. People finding families who've been searching for them forever. All tears and hugs and "we never gave up hope."
Maybe somewhere out there, there's a couple with my baby photo on their fridge. Maybe they've been wondering about me this whole time.
I scroll through success stories until my eyes burn. Most people either go through adoption agencies or hire private investigators. The agency thing needs court orders and takes forever.
I don't have forever.
"San Diego County Adoption Services, this is Margaret."
"Hi, um, I'm trying to find my birth parents? I was adopted in 2006."
Her voice is nice but firm. "Sweetie, you'll need a court order for sealed records. That process usually takes months."
"But I need to know now. My family situation is... complicated."
She pauses. "Have you thought about a private investigator? Sometimes they work faster."
PI. Right. Because I'm totally rolling in cash.
But what else am I gonna do?
Maria Santos has this tiny office downtown that smells like old coffee. She's maybe forty, super nice eyes, and her desk is covered in family photos. Other people's happy endings, I realize.
"DNA testing makes this way easier now," she says, leaning back. "Most cases? I solve 'em in a week."
"How much we talking?"
"Eight hundred up front, plus whatever expenses come up."
My stomach drops. Eight hundred bucks is basically my entire savings. Money from working at the mall last summer, money I was saving for college stuff.
But this might be my only shot.
"Most birth parents who gave kids up for adoption? They wanna reconnect," Maria continues. "You'd be surprised how many are just waiting for their kid to reach out."
I hand over my debit card before I can chicken out.
Back at Aunt Linda's, I find Sierra using my bathroom. My shampoo's been moved to the guest bathroom down the hall, next to some sketchy dandruff stuff.
I check my phone. Still nothing from Drew.
The family group chat's going crazy about house plans. New kitchen, fancy floors, maybe a deck. I start typing "what about my room?" then delete it.
What's the point?
Ryan's on the floor doing homework. "Hey Paige, Sierra's thinking UCSD too. You guys could totally be roommates."
Great. Even my college plans have to include Sierra now.
"Maybe," I mumble, shutting my laptop.
My phone buzzes. Finally, Drew.
Me: "Wanna grab coffee today?"
Two hours later: "Busy today. Maybe later this week."
Me: "Are we okay?"
Drew: "Just need some space to think."
Space to think about what? Whether you wanna date someone who's not actually a Kelly?
Thursday afternoon, my phone rings. Maria.
"Paige, I found your birth parents."
My heart literally stops. "Really? Do they wanna meet me?"
Long pause. Way too long.
"Honey, I'm so sorry. They died five years ago. Car accident."
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Five years ago. When I was thirteen, thinking I had this perfect family, my real parents were dying.
"David and Sarah Morrison. They lived in Riverside. No other kids."
I can barely whisper. "Did they ever look for me?"
"Friends said they talked about you all the time. They wanted to find you when you turned eighteen."
They wanted me back. But it's too late.
I hang up and stare at the ceiling until I stop crying.
The lawyer's office feels like a funeral home. Beige everything and fluorescent lights that make everyone look dead.
"After everything's paid off, there's $4,247 left," he says, sliding papers across his desk. "As their biological daughter, it's yours."
This is it. This is all I have left of them. $4,247.
Two days later, the hospital calls. My final bill after insurance: $2,390.
I stare at the numbers. Use my dead parents' money to pay for getting hurt in a fire at my fake family's house. Use their love to pay for being left behind.
After I write the check, I've got $1,857 left.
The lawyer hands me a small box. "They kept some baby stuff."
Inside: a hospital bracelet that says "Baby Girl Morrison," an ultrasound picture, and this tiny teddy bear that's probably older than me.
They kept these. For eighteen years, they kept proof I existed. Proof they loved me.
I cry in my car for twenty minutes.
When I get back, everyone's in the kitchen planning Sierra's eighteenth birthday.
"I've never had a real family birthday party," Sierra says quietly.
Mom's face lights up. "We'll make it perfect, sweetie. Whatever you want."
Sierra's getting her first family birthday while I just lost any chance of having one with mine.
That night I'm sitting on this awful couch, holding the teddy bear, staring at that ultrasound photo. This blurry black and white picture is the only photo my birth parents ever had of me.
This is everything. All the family I have in the world. An ultrasound, a teddy bear, and $1,857.
I spent eighteen years living someone else's life, and now the life I was supposed to have doesn't exist anymore. I'm not just unwanted. I'm completely alone.
But maybe that means I'm free too. No family waiting for me, no place I'm supposed to be. I could go anywhere. Become anyone.
Question is: how far can $1,857 take me?