Page 137 of The Wrong Brother

“You remember what, exactly?”

Kate shrugs almost absentmindedly. “I remember more than people think. Not about my mom and dad, just about moving a lot.” She traces circles through the syrup with her fork. “I remember one house where the lady locked the pantry because she didn’t want us to take extra snacks.”

I feel sick. She’s never told me any of this before.

“If we asked for food outside meal times, we’d get in trouble. There was another place too where I had to sleep on a couch, even though they told the social care lady that they had a bedroom for me.” She smiles faintly. “I kept pretending it was camping because that made it less scary.”

I close my eyes briefly.

God.

She was six.Sixwhen I found her. How many other memories does she have buried under her skin? What else does she keep locked up, to herself?

Kate looks back up at me. “I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I remember thinking somebody was supposed to come.”

I can barely breathe.

“You did.”

A small smile appears, and she spears a bite of pancake, offering it to me. When I shake my head, throat too thick with emotion to respond verbally, she chews thoughtfully.

“I don’t remember alotfrom before you found me; I just mostly remember after. Like getting my own room. And how you kept buying me stuffed animals because you didn’t know what little girls liked.”

“I was trying,” I choke out, voice rough and half-amused.

“I know.” She gives me a tight, tired smile, too tired for a twelve-year-old to have. “I’m glad you found me, Uncle Rus.”

The simplicity of the sentence nearly undoes me. Not because of what she says, but because I know how close I came to never finding her at all.

The sunlight that had felt so warm a few minutes ago now seems strangely fragile, as though the morning itself is holding its breath. After a long silence, she asks the question I’d been expecting.

“So where’s my mom then? Do you think she’d want to see me?”

I look down at the lukewarm mug of coffee in my hands before answering.

“I’m not sure. I found her once when I was looking for you. But she’s moved. She’s still in Utah, I’m pretty sure.”

Kate’s nose scrunches up. “Utah?”

We share a look, both of us unsure of what’s so appealing about the state. “Utah,” I confirm.

The memory returns with uncomfortable clarity: a run-down mobile home park outside Salt Lake City, faded aluminum siding, weeds growing through cracked pavement, and a woman who never opened the door because she’d disappeared again before I arrived.

“She wasn’t there anymore the last time I checked. But she’s okay, I think.”

It feels like a lie because I have no idea if Shannon is okay. Kate listens without interrupting.

“I eventually found someone who knew where she drifted from time to time. She didn’t have a permanent address, so I rented a post office box, and I send a little money there.”

“You send her money?”

“Every month.”

She looks surprised. “Does she ever write back?”

“No,” I shake my head gently. “But someone collects it.” I don’t say out loud,I hope it’s her.I’ve never thought too hard about this situation, about what it might mean if the “contact” is just taking the money for themselves. About how well Shannon has been hiding all these years.

Kate lowers her gaze to the table. “Why did you look for her?”