She’s my mother, Helena,” he said.

And my entire world tilted.

“The hell she is,” I spat.

“Helena. Please. Just listen. For once, just listen and talk to me like I’m an adult and not one of the kids,” his eyes pleaded with me.

I didn’t speak. I just waited.

“First of all, the phone, it’s not some secret burner phone. My usual one fell out of my turnout gear at a fire scene last week. The screen shattered. I had to get another one but I haven’t finished transferring everything yet. The kids’ pictures are still on the old one. I was going to sort it out this weekend.”

I faltered. Just slightly. Fine, that explained the phone.

“And the messages?” I asked. “Who is she?”

“You know I grew up in foster care,” he said simply.

The shift in topic knocked the wind out of me.

“You know I never knew my parents,” he continued, voice hoarse. “I told you that.”

I did. It was something we had talked about in the early years, how he had bounced from home to home, how he had no memories of his mother except for faint details.

“She gave me up when I was four,” he said. “I barely remembered her. Just flashes. The scent of her perfume in the wind. The sound of her laugh. But three months ago, she found me. My mother found me.”

“How did she find you?” I asked. “I need more information. I need to understand this, Chad.”

“That silly article,” he said. “The firefighter piece. The one about me saving the cat from the tree and being the “cat whisperer” because everyone calls me to save the animals,” he huffed a bitter laugh.

That article had been adorable. We had it framed for our study.

“She saw my picture, Helena,” he continued. “Saw my last name and that bit about my foster care background and knew it had to be me.”

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