Celeste maintained her public smile.
To anyone farther away, she looked like a mother offering her daughter a quiet piece of guidance.
Then she leaned close enough that only I could hear.
“Don’t make this awkward,” she said. “You know what I mean.”
I did know.
I had known since childhood, though the rules had never been written down.
I was adopted, and Celeste spoke about that fact differently depending on who was listening.
At charity events, I was evidence of the Hartwells’ generous hearts.
She would rest a hand on my shoulder and tell strangers how they had welcomed me into their home.
She liked the phrase welcomed into our home because it made the family sound noble without promising that I had ever been welcomed into their lives.
