But my real family won’t listen to me, and my found family thinks I tried to sabotage Tatya’s career.
I break open the pages, continuing from the last picture Popo and I looked at together, hoping to find a scrap of comfort in the many faces of my grandmother.
There are pages of photos from when she was a young woman. The earliest ones were taken in Hawaii, with a backdrop of white sandy beaches and thick banana leaves. And then she’s somewhere else—somewhere with tall buildings, streets full of cars, and vintage motel signs in the background.
Grandpa Cillian makes another appearance, his bright orange hair so vivid, it’s almost as if someone turned up the contrast just on his hair. There are photos of him and Popo—some separate, most of them together—and even one of them with Taipo. And then there’s Popo at the courthouse, her hair curled to one side and covered in a tiny blue hat, with Grandpa Cillian in a brown suit wearing a nervous smile on his face.
And then there’s Popo with a pregnant belly, her hands pressed against her skin like she just can’t wait to meet whoever is in there.
After that, there are fewer and fewer photos of Popo and Grandpa Cillian. Because Mom was born, and she’s clearly dominated their lives.
With each page I turn, I watch Mom grow up little by little. I see the toys she got at Christmas, the kind of cake she had on her birthdays, the friends she hung out with, the instruments she used to play. I see a few of her at ballet class, and another at a piano recital.
And then Mom’s a teenager. There’s a picture of her with her prom date. Another one of her driving a car, maybe even for the first time. I see Mom at her high school graduation, her neck adorned with several enormous leis.
And then I turn another page, and a burst of ice rushes through me, making me feel like the entire world has stopped spinning and I’m frozen in a single moment of time.
I forget to breathe.
Mom’s hair is up in a high bun. Her smile stretches across her entire face, and she’s happier and more alive than I’ve ever seen her. She’s wearing a red leotard with a blaze of golden flames across her chest.
And she’s sitting on top of a static trapeze.
* * *
“You were an aerialist?” My voice is too heavy to hold up, so my words plummet to the earth like they’re bags of sand and rock.
Mom is still holding her purse, and Dad isn’t even finished walking through the front door. Mom’s eyes widen, but I think it has more to do with not knowing I was standing in the hallway than realizing I know the truth.
A truth she kept from me my entire life.
I don’t just feel betrayed—I feel manipulated.
She sets her purse on the table and folds her arms in front of her, her dark bob concealing part of her face like she still has more to hide. “It was a long time ago.”
Dad parks himself next to Mom like he’s ready to be her backup, and it sends a burst of rage through me. Because it confirms what I already suspected—he knew too.
I try to keep my jaw from shaking. “You both knew—you knew—and still you’ve made me feel like being an aerialist wasn’t a realistic dream. And the whole time, you knew it was your dream once too.”
“Dreams change, Harley, and if you don’t have something to fall back on? It’s hard. I don’t want that for you,” Mom says with so much tension in her face.
“How can you not see how unfair that is? This is my life. I should get the chance to make my own mistakes, or take risks, or try new things,” I say, and I see Dad take a breath, and I know he’s the sledgehammer that’s going to break apart any hint of a bridge I’m trying to build here.
“You have a lot of growing up to do if you think parents should just sit back and watch their child make the same mistakes they did. That’s not how this works. It’s not how we work,” Dad says.
I open my mouth to say something, but I guess Dad isn’t done talking because suddenly he’s pointing his finger at me, and Mom’s shoulders are curved inward like it’s his turn now, and it might be a while.