“Then sit.”
“Sit down.”
She did.
I stayed standing.
“How long has that woman thought Bev is your daughter?”
Stephanie looked at the floor.
“About a year.”
I laughed once because my brain rejected the size of the answer.
I stayed standing.
“A year?”
“It started with one stupid lie.”
“How does someone accidentally have my daughter for a year?”
“I met Terry in an online support group. It’s for women struggling with infertility. We started talking privately. One night when I was here, she asked if I had kids.”
“And you said Beverly.”
“It started with one stupid lie.”
“I said one.”
“That’s supposed to make this better?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you correct her?”
Stephanie wiped her face.
“I liked how it felt.”
“That’s supposed to make this better?”
“I liked not being the woman everyone felt sorry for,” she said. “I liked talking to someone who thought I already had what I wanted.”
“So you borrowed my child.”
“I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Then why my bedroom? Why my necklace?”
“So you borrowed my child.”
Stephanie looked away.
“Terry once asked what Bev was like when she was little.”
I stared at her.
“And?”
Stephanie hesitated.
