Chapter 1 - The Smile That Didn't Last
My name is Emma Claire Whitfield, and I want to tell you about the day my family photograph fell apart.
It happened on the green lawn in front of the old red-brick buildings, under the white flowering trees, on a sunny afternoon in May, at my college graduation.
I was nineteen years old, standing in a deep-burgundy gown and a matching cap with a gold tassel, holding a small bouquet of white roses in one hand and my diploma folder against my chest with the other.
My mother, Diane, stood on my left in a fitted white dress, her hand resting gently on my upper arm.
My father, Richard, stood on my right in a dark-navy suit, looking the way he always looked in public, calm and expensive and in control.
A photographer in a gray shirt raised his camera and told us to smile.
I smiled.
I was proud of myself.
I had worked for this moment for four years.
Then my mother leaned in close to my shoulder and started talking in a low voice, the way people talk when they don't want anyone else to hear.
"Emma, sweetheart, we need to tell you something.
We're making some changes at home.
Your father is moving out.
We're selling the house.
And your college fund is being reorganized."
I turned my head toward her.
I didn't understand what she was saying.
"What?"
"We'll talk about the details later," she said.
"We just didn't want you to hear it from anyone else."
I looked at my father.
He looked at the grass.
The photographer said, "Okay, everybody, big smiles."
I felt my face go hot.
My eyes filled up before I could stop them.
"Are you kidding me?"
I said.
"You seriously picked my graduation day to pull this?"
My mother's hand tightened on my arm.
"Emma, lower your voice."
"I worked my butt off for years," I said.
"And you couldn't even let me have one happy day?"
People nearby were starting to look.
The photographer lowered his camera.
"What is wrong with you people?"
I said.
"Do my feelings mean anything to you at all?"
My mother leaned in again.
"Stop making a scene," she said.
"This is not about you."
That was the sentence that broke me.
I reached up and pulled my cap off my head.
My hair fell loose around my face and I didn't care.
Tears were running down my cheeks and I didn't care about that either.
I just stood there on the lawn, holding my cap and my diploma and my white roses, crying in front of everyone.
And then a man I had never met walked up from the right side of the crowd.
He was tall, in his late forties or early fifties, with dark hair going gray at the temples, blue-gray eyes, and a light-gray suit that fit him perfectly.
He put one hand gently on my shoulder.
"Are you all right?" he asked.
I shook my head because I couldn't speak.
He turned toward my father.
His voice went cold.
"What the hell did you say to her?
Look at her.
She's crying on the biggest day of her life."
My father straightened up.
"This is a family matter.
It's none of your business."
"You call yourself family," the man said, "but you treat her like she's disposable.
That's cold, and it's pathetic."
My mother stepped forward.
"You need to leave.
Now."
The man didn't move.
"You think you're going to humiliate her in front of everybody and just walk away?" he said.
"Not a chance."
Then he turned back to me.
He took both of my hands in his, right there in front of my parents and the photographer and everyone.
"Wait," I whispered.
"What did you just say?"
He leaned closer so only I could hear him.
"Sweetheart, there's something about your family they've been hiding from you for years."
I stared up at him.
My mouth was open.
I couldn't make a sound.
Behind me, I heard my mother's breath catch.
"What are you talking about?"
I finally managed.
"What have they been hiding from me?"
The man looked down at our hands, then back at my face.
"Not here," he said.
"Not with them watching.
But I need you to know that I came here today for one reason, and that reason is you."
