Ethan raised one finger.
“The folder marked E.M.”
Dad glanced at him.
“Yes.”
“You still have them?”
“I believe so.”
I stared at my father.
“You believe so?”
“Joanna—”
“Ten years.”
“I know.”
“No, Dad. I don’t think you do.”
My voice did not rise.
It didn’t need to.
“For ten years, every school authorization, every medical form, every trip, every program application, every time somebody asked what my legal relationship to Ethan was, I had to explain. You had papers that could have helped us?”
Dad exhaled.
“They weren’t complete.”
“What does that mean?”
“The lawyer prepared Denise’s consent. You still had to file your own petition. There would have been a hearing.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Mom answered.
“Because we thought Denise might come back.”
Denise stared at her.
“I told you I wasn’t ready.”
“You were twenty-four.”
“I was twenty-three.”
