I had been mourned.

An entire family had been searching for me while I taught myself to become invisible in group homes.

I lay in that silk-sheeted bed with my son on my chest and did the strange, vertiginous work of re-reading my own life.

Every scene of it changed meaning in light of the truth.

The nights in group homes when I had lain awake certain no one in the world was thinking of me — someone had been thinking of me, every one of those nights, a woman in a penthouse tending a garden against my return.

The forms I had filled out my whole life with blanks where the family should go — the blanks had been lies, forced on me by a kidnapping I could not remember.