In a New York Minute(88)

“Shut up,” I shrieked, a little too loudly. “That’s ridiculous. You’re so talented!”

She shrugged. “I’m glad that you think so, because I need convincing a lot of the time.”

I eased into the chair, my back relaxing. “I know what you mean,” I said. “I’m the same exact way.” Maybe it’s genetic, I thought.

“Well, tell me what’s going on with work,” she said. “Maybe all my mistakes can help you.”

Thirty minutes later, after scheduling a date to talk again in a couple of days, I made my way into the living room where my mom was tucked under a blanket, watching HGTV. She’d been home from the hospital for almost a month now, but she still wasn’t back at 100 percent.

Jim was at the grocery store, and I sat down at the opposite end of the couch, wrapping an arm around her socked feet.

“I could hear you in there, laughing,” she said, turning her gaze toward me. “Were you talking to the girls?”

She meant Lola and Cleo, and I just nodded. “Yeah,” I said, and then realized it was now or never.

“Actually, no.” My stomach bubbled with nerves. This was it. “I was talking to a woman in Italy who I met through one of those DNA testing sites.”

Our eyes locked, and I could see in her face she knew what I was about to say before I said it. “I took one of those tests in the spring, just for fun. But I found a half sister, from my birth father’s side.”

“Oh, Franny.” Her face was unreadable, and all I could think was that I’d disappointed her yet again. “I’m so happy for you.”

I leveled my eyes at her. “You are?” This was not what I’d expected her to say.

“I always wanted you to have siblings,” she said, a hesitant smile breaking out on her face. “And to know more about that side of your family. I’ve always felt guilty that I’ve never been able to tell you much about your birth father. I barely had any info to go on. We didn’t do a ton of talking.”

She said this with a laugh, and in that moment I could imagine her, young and passionate, swept away by a handsome man with thick black hair.

“You never told me anything about him,” I said. “I’ve always been too nervous to ask.”

“It’s hard to talk about,” she said as she leaned forward and reached for my hand, giving it a squeeze. “You know, it was a different time. There’s a lot of shame there for me, I think. And worry. I worry a lot about how I haven’t done everything right for you.”

This was the most we’d ever talked about my birth father, their relationship, and her feelings about all of it. It was new territory for us, and it felt raw and scary. But it also felt exactly right.

“He’s not alive anymore,” I said quietly. Delivering this news to her was unexpectedly crushing. Saying it out loud didn’t just makes his death real; it made him real too.

“Oh, Franny,” she said, her voice breaking. She slid her legs off the couch and scooted over to sit next to me, wrapping her arm around my shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I am too,” I said, choked up. I’d never get the chance to know him, this person who was a part of me. It was a loss I was still processing.

“Thank you for not being mad,” I said, leaning on her, feeling her warmth.

“Franny, how could I be mad at you?” She smiled at me, a look of pure love. My body loosened up the tiniest bit.

“Am I scared of you finding out something that might hurt you, or leave you feeling disappointed? Of course. I’m your mom.” She said this with a shrug, like it was the obvious answer to everything. “I’ve always worried about that. But, no, I’m not mad.”

“I’ll be okay,” I said, swallowing down the lump in my throat.

“I know you will.” She leaned forward and patted my hand. “Look how well you’ve done since losing your job. You know you don’t need to stay here for my sake, right? I’m on the mend, and you should get back to things.”

And with that, I started to cry. Not dainty, delicate tears, like the ones that had arrived when I saw Anna just minutes earlier. And not the wet, blubbery, messy kind of cry, like what Hayes saw that day on the subway.

This was a full-body, chest-heaving tsunami of a cry, which exploded out of me without warning.

“Franny?” she asked, shifting her body to look at me, her voice alarmed. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve screwed everything up.” My voice came out like a wail, and I pressed my face into my hands. “I tried to launch my own business, and I did that one job, which was amazing. But I haven’t had enough jobs lined up to keep up with bills and rent.”

“But I thought you said on TV—”

“It wasn’t the truth. It just came out. I was embarrassed and nervous, and I just wanted everyone to think I was doing okay. I wanted you to think that.” The words spilled out of me. “I don’t want you to think I’m a failure. I know you already worry about me not having a steadier career.”

She took her free hand and brought it to my chin, lifting my face until our eyes met.

“Francesca Marie Doyle”—her voice was firm—“I’ve spent the last thirty years being in awe of you.”