Page 124 of Mirror Image

“But for starters,” she says, “for the way we treated you when Mary brought you home to us. You’re Mary’s sister. That does make you family. But we were so . . . threatened . . . I guess you could say?”

“And afraid,” he adds. “That she’d, I don’t know, love you more? That you might somehow take her away from us.” Now he looks down at his hands in his lap. “In the end we were the ones who drove her away. We realize now that it didn’t have to be like that. That it doesn’t have to be like that anymore.”

I study them.

I’m so used to reading danger in every kindness that sincerity feels foreign—like a language I once knew but forgot how to speak.

“What do you know about my life now?” I ask.

“Uh, not much,” he admits. “You came onto our radar when you launched the foundation—and started awarding grants.”

It’s been a long haul, but we’ve just released the first round of funds to help young adults transition from foster and institutional care to independence.

“Right. Well, the foundation—that’s my work now. It’s what I do. Mary and I talked about it . . . before,” I tell them quietly, using my bare foot to push off on the porch floor so that I’m rocking gently.

It’s easier to be Sam when the work is good. When the world sees her as someone generous, principled, whole. Easier than being Mary, who never had the chance to be anything at all.

“Well, we think it’s brilliant,” my mother says. “We only wish we’d thought of it. And the fact that this was how you chose to use the money—it just spoke volumes about you. About your character, Sam. We’re so ashamed of our part in all this. And we want to ask you . . .” She starts, stops, and closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, I find more resolve there. “We want to be a part of it—if you’ll allow it.”

Dad throws up his palms again in a preemptive gesture this time. “We understand if you don’t want that. And we’ll stay away if that’s what you prefer. But if you’d consider allowing us to help you, we’d be so honored.”

“What exactly did you have in mind?” I ask a little suspiciously.

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” he clarifies. “We know that the money you have is an excellent start, but we could set you up to expand the reach and longevity of the program.”

“Either as silent ‘angel donors,’” she adds, “or as active participants. You could use our infrastructure and resources—if you wanted.”

My foot flexes down again, this time to stop the back-and-forth motion of my swing. I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Surely there must be a catch.

“And then what? You decide who gets what? I get squeezed out, and it’s just another vanity project for Langston Pharma?”

Their alarm is immediate.

“No, Sam, no, that’s not it at all!” she says. “No, this would be your program. You’d make the decisions. About all of it. Where the funding goes and how much. Future projects, all of it. We’d put it all in writing, and your attorneys could look it over. If you’d allow us, we’d even salary you—but that’s your call.” She looks at my father, who nods, then back to me, her eyes locking on mine as fiercely as I’ve ever seen. “Sam, this isn’t just about Mary—missing Mary, wanting to honor her memory. This is about you. We have so much to make up for. We’ve wasted so much time with you that we can’t ever get back. But we want to try, now, to be the family we should have been all along . . .”

Doug nods, voice rough. “Your sister used to say I never knew when to quit trying,” he says with a shaky smile. “Maybe she was right. I just keep thinking about what I used to tell her—what my dad told me. It’s never too late to be a family.”

I study them.

“You . . . want to be my parents?” I ask.

Not because I want the answer.

Because the irony could crush me.

Mom shakes her head. “No. We’re not naive. We don’t want to define it. Not yet. We just want to . . . try. To know you.”

“This needed to be said in person,” Dad adds. “So you could see we mean it.”

“No strings,” she promises. “Your decisions. Your call.”

The tears pool behind my lashes.

They believe their daughter is dead.

They believe I am Sam.

They gain nothing by offering to help me.