I called the adoption agency. The state had recently unsealed records for adult adoptees. It usually took months to get paperwork. But I begged the woman on the phone. I told her it was an emergency.

She called me back three hours later.

“The birth father is indeed listed as Robert Vance,” she said. Her voice was quiet. Professional. “The birth mother was seventeen. Her name was Clara.”

Clara.

Clara was Sarah’s maternal aunt. Her mother’s younger sister.

My head was spinning. The story in Sarah’s family was that Aunt Clara had gone to Chicago in the early eighties to study music and decided to stay there. She died young, they said. A car accident. They rarely talked about her.

But the social worker read me the notes from the unsealed file.

“There is a document here,” she said. “A private agreement. Robert Vance paid the medical expenses. He also bought a bus ticket to Chicago for Clara. There was a monthly stipend paid to her family to ensure the child was placed for closed adoption.”

Robert had got his own teenage sister-in-law pregnant. He was married to Sarah’s Aunt Martha at the time. To save his marriage and his reputation, the family had shipped Clara away. They sold me.

And then, years later, I met Sarah in college. We fell in love. We got married. We had two beautiful children.

And nobody said a word.

I drove home in a daze. The drive usually takes twenty minutes. I don’t remember any of it. I think I ran a red light near the library, but I’m not sure.

When I walked through the door, the house smelled like garlic and onions. Sarah was at the stove.

She was humming. Our fourteen-year-old son was on the couch, staring at his phone.

“Did you get the mail?” Sarah asked. She didn’t turn around. She was stirring the sauce.

“Sarah,” I said. My voice sounded thin. Like it belonged to someone else.

She turned around then. She had a wooden spoon in her hand. She saw my face and her smile faded.

“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Did something happen at the warehouse?”

I didn’t answer. I just walked over to the kitchen table. I laid my phone down. The DNA match screen was still open. I also laid the silver-plated pocket watch next to it.

“Look at this,” I said.

She set the spoon down. She walked over, wiping her hands on her apron. It had little yellow lemons printed on it. I don’t know why I noticed that. It just seemed so normal. So ordinary.

She looked at the phone. She frowned.

“Who is this?” she asked. “Why is Uncle Robert’s photo on there?”

“It is an ancestry match,” I said. “He is my biological father, Sarah.”

She laughed. It was a quick, nervous sound. “Arthur, that’s impossible. You’re adopted. Robert was my uncle. He didn’t have other kids.”

“Read the relationship prediction,” I said.