Suddenly I didn’t know who I was. Before the phone call, here’s what I knew: I was adopted. My real parents died in a car crash when I was four. Shelley was the only mother I’ve ever known. As soon as I could understand, she told me I was adopted. Shelley’s husband—I never thought of him as my father—wasn’t home much. When he lost his job, he went out west to work in the oil fields. I didn’t have a lot of friends. It was mostly Shelley and me. I always cared too much and didn’t want to get hurt. Because people let you down. People are liars. All the time I was growing up, Shelley and I argued. She never saw things my way. Then she could stay mad for days and not speak to me. In the end she’d be all lovey-dovey, as if nothing had happened. When I was a kid, I was always relieved when she started talking again. It was hard living with someone who ignored you. Once I was a teenager, though, I didn’t mind being left alone. When she saw it didn’t bug me, she gave up the silent treatment.
