Infinity Son (Infinity Cycle #1)(29)

“Could be,” Iris says. “Again, there’s a lot we don’t know.”

Ma is looking back and forth between me and Brighton. “Boys, can we talk outside?”

On the verge of tears, I ask, “Did you know about my powers all along?” She doesn’t say anything. “If this involves what’s happening, you have to clue me in right now.”

Prudencia stands and addresses the Spell Walkers. “Maybe we should give them some privacy.”

No one moves. All eyes are on Ma. She’s flicking at her palm, which she does whenever she’s nervous.

“Ma, please tell me what you did to me, or I might blow up.”

“We saved you,” Ma says. “Your father and I, we saved you. You were abandoned, and we brought you in.”

“I don’t get it.”

Brighton stands by me and looks like he can barely hold his head up. “I think she’s saying that you . . . that you’re adopted, Emil.”

I have ten thousand thoughts and no words.

This world doesn’t make sense. It’s not even about the powers anymore. I don’t know who I am. My name is Emil. My middle name is Donato, which means gift from the gods. My last name is Rey. But even those basics being called into question make me feel hard lumps in my throat, blocking all air. Was I actually named after a man who isn’t even my grandfather? Am I actually a gift from the gods? Do I still get to be a Rey of Light if I’m not a Rey?

Why didn’t my biological parents want me?

I lived in someone else’s womb for nine months, and I have no idea who they are. I’ve grown up reading so many stories about orphans in books, and I was always so grateful to be raised by a family that wanted me. Parents who fed me and rocked me and took care of me and taught me how to talk and how to read and how to love. How could something so real now feel like an illusion?

I’m consumed in dark thoughts as I rewrite my history. I don’t belong with the Reys, and every family photo I’m in is a lie, like someone photoshopped me in out of pity.

I can’t breathe.

Brighton isn’t my brother anymore, and even though we aren’t twins and never shared a womb or the same blood, one look at his face, and I know we’ve at least been lied to together.

I struggle to find a word, any word. All I can manage is: “What?”

“We should’ve told you,” Ma says.

“So who . . . ? And how . . . ?”

“We don’t know who your biological parents are,” she says.

“Of course you don’t, wow. If you were going to kick me out the family like this, you could’ve gotten an address to send me to.”

How is this not a nightmare?

When someone discovers they’re special in a story, there’s usually some wise adult who tells the hero what’s what about their new life. But all I have is a group of young people who are wading through their own uncertainties. Everyone is throwing darts at a board and praying to the stars they hit their target.

“I don’t get it,” Brighton says. “If Emil wasn’t born with me, then when?”

“The same day you were born,” Ma says.

“My birthday isn’t a lie, phew. All good now.” I fake a fist bump with Brighton.

“As far as the doctors could tell, you were a newborn too.”

I picture Brighton being born without me and realize that my own birth certificate must’ve been forged; I would’ve never known the difference or questioned my parents.

I want to run a flaming fist straight through the wall.

“So what happened? Someone leave me in a basket and knock on your door?”

Every time Ma cries, Brighton and I drop everything we’re doing to keep her company. If she wants privacy, she cries alone in the bathroom with the shower running or locks herself in her bedroom. But usually she lets us hug her and remind her what an incredible mother she is, and how we’re the young men we are today because of her heart.

Tonight, we keep our distance.

“After I gave birth, Leonardo wanted to get me balloons, but the helium tank in the hospital’s gift shop was empty, so he went out to find some.” Ma wipes her tears on the back of her hand. “I always pictured myself holding my child in a room with yellow daffodils and balloons, and your father wanted to make that dream come true. He left the hospital, and you were crying on a street corner two blocks away, baking under the sun. No one was around. No note or blanket. Your father never hated a stranger the way he did whoever abandoned you. He carried you back into the hospital and doctors and nurses were all over you. So was he. He was so immediately protective of you, just like he was when he held Brighton for the first time. He kept running back and forth between checking on Brighton and you.”

The Spell Walkers and Prudencia are dead silent.

Here’s this absolutely wonderful memory of our father that our mother might have taken to her grave. Brighton looks like he may cry any second.

“I didn’t get to meet you until that evening,” Ma says. “The police arrived to investigate, but when I saw how innocent you were, my heart broke even more. We don’t know if your biological parents couldn’t afford to take care of you or what darkness possessed them to abandon you in the manner they did. But we knew you were coming home with us. Your father looked at you like he didn’t trust a single other person to take care of you.”