I couldn’t breathe.
“Then, eight years ago, my daughter came home from first grade talking about her new best friend. Wyatt. She talked about him nonstop. We had him over for her birthday.” He swallowed. “You dropped him off. You stood at the door for about four seconds. Diane took the present and closed the door on you. I’m sorry about that. That was the only time.”
“I remember.”
“I walked into the living room, and there was a little boy sitting on my couch eating a cupcake,” Graham said. “And he had my face. Not sort of. Exactly. I have a picture of myself at six years old on my mother’s refrigerator. Same cowlick. Same ears. Same way of holding a fork with his whole fist.”
My hand was over my mouth.
“I asked Harper when his birthday was. She told me. March 2011.” He finally looked at me. “That night, I logged into the cryobank’s sibling registry for the first time in my life. There was one post under my donor number. From a mother in Bramble Creek. ‘Son born March 2011. Healthy. Happy. Thank you, 4471.'”
