Her arms circle around me, and she hugs me with everything she has in her. “The only reason I know about any of this is because your dad once asked me to raise you. Your mother . . . she couldn’t take care of you for some reason, and your dad . . . well, at first he asked me if I could take care of you, because he didn’t want to put you into foster care. But then something changed, and he decided he wanted to keep you. I tried to talk him out of it, especially because of Lynn, but he’s too goddamn thickheaded to listen to anything I say.” She leans back and takes my hands in hers.

I realize my fingers are shaking—that my entire body is shaking. “My dad never said why he took me in?” I whisper. “Why he changed his mind? Or why my mom needed to give me away?”

She shakes her head sadly. “I’m sorry, honey, but he never talks about it at all. The only time it’s ever been brought up is over the phone the few weeks before they dropped you off with me, and that’s because I forced the subject on him. I was tired of the way they treated you, and wanted to get some goddamn answers over what the hell happened fourteen years ago between your mother and him.”

My mind swirls with confusion. “Wait . . . fourteen years . . .”

Her hold tightens on my hand, like she’s afraid I’m going to run. “You lived with your mother for a few years before you went to go live with your dad.”

I press my quivering lips together as tears burn in my eyes. “Why can’t I remember any of this?”

“Honey, you were barely three when all this happened.” Her voice is gentle, but her hold on my hand is firm as tears slide down my cheeks. “I know this is hard to take in, but—”

Before she can finish that thought, I yank my hands out of hers and run to the bathroom. “I think I’m going to be sick,” I say, then slam the door shut and lock it.

After I throw up the wine I drank earlier, I sink to the tiled floor in front of my bag. I dig out my sketchpad and open it up to one of my favorite comics I drew, starring me and the woman I always wished was my mom. Maybe she wasn’t just a wish, though. Maybe she was a faint memory I was trying to hold onto in dark times.

I touch the dark lines I meticulously drew. “Who are you?” I whisper.

Silence is my only answer, and it hurts almost as badly as my heart.

Curling up into a ball, I hug the sketchbook to my chest. Indigo wanted me to spend the summer discovering myself, but how the hell am I supposed to do that when I have no idea where I came from?

After bawling my eyes out for what feels like hours, I finally pull myself off the floor and drag my ass out of the bathroom. The lights are still on, but Indigo is passed out in one of the beds, still wearing her dress, snoring away.

My eyes are so swollen I can barely see anything, but I stand with confidence. I have to in order to hide the nerves sloshing around inside me. “When I get back, I want to find her,” I tell Grandma Stephy.

She quickly aims the remote at the television, shuts off the show she was watching, and rubs the sleepiness from her eyes. “Honey, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“I don’t care if it’s a good idea or not.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, still holding onto my sketchbook. “It’s what I want—need—to do. All my life, I felt like I was crazy, because I never, ever fit in with my family. And now I learn the reason why . . . and I want to know who she is, if she’s like me. Maybe she can understand me.” Maybe she’ll love me.

Grandma Stephy ruffles her hair into place as she sits up in the bed and lowers her feet to the floor. “Isa, I know it’s been hard living in that house, but I worry what’ll happen to you if this doesn’t turn out the way you want it to.”

“But I don’t even know how I want it to turn out,” I point out. “I mostly just feel . . . lost right now.”

She scoots toward me. “I hate to be blunt, but I feel like I have to.” She blows out a deafening breath. “But there was a reason your mother chose to give you to your father. Whether it’s because she couldn’t take care of you, or . . .” She shakes her head. “I just want you to make sure you think about all the scenarios, how this could turn out before you dive into this.”

I get where she’s coming from. I can think of a ton of reasons off the top of my head of how this could end up going down. From my real mother being just as mean as Cruella de Lynn, to her being dead.

God, what if she is dead? What if I never get to know her? What if I continue to drift through life feeling so out of place?

I have to know. Have to understand. Where I came from. What makes me tick. What makes me so strange. What makes me . . . well, me. And even though I know it might hurt more than anything else, I have to know why she gave me up.

“If I do that—If I spend the next few months thinking about how this is going to turn out—and I still want to find her when I get back, will you help me?” I ask.

She’s silent for a maddening amount of time, and I end up chanting one of my songs to keep from shouting at her.

Chocolate fudge. Caramel. Cinnamon rolls. I wonder if my mom bakes . . .

“If that’s what you decide you want to do, then yes; I’ll help you,” she finally agrees, but she doesn’t sound happy about it.

“Thank you, Grandma.” I feel even more nervous for some reason, now knowing I could possibly find my real mom. What will I say to her when I see her? What will she say?

“Don’t thank me yet.” Grandma Stephy points to the other bed. “Now, get some sleep. I have a lot of fun things planned for us tomorrow.”

I nod then climb into bed, still grasping onto the sketchbook. I may have told Grandma Stephy I’d really think this through, but I already know what my decision will end up being. Like Indigo said, good or bad, life is about experiences. And this is one experience I’m going through with, even if the outcome is brutal.

PARIS TURNS OUT to be fun. Like a lot of a lot of fun. And we spend so much time sightseeing, tasting the food, and going shopping that I don’t have too much time to dwell over my family situation. Still, during the late hours of the night, when Indigo is snoring and Grandma Stephy is tossing and turning, I lie awake in my bed going over every single memory I can scrounge up, trying to figure out how I missed it. Missed the truth. It’s hard to take in, hard not to cry, and sometimes I let the tears soak my pillow. I just make sure that when the sun comes up, I’m bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to go on whatever adventure Indigo has planned for us.

“I’m so exhausted,” Indigo says to Grandma Stephy as we get on the elevator to go up to our room. We’ve been in London for a few days now, and there are so many sights to see, like Big Ben and the Tower Bridge, that we’ve had hardly any time to rest. “I think I’m going to crash early tonight.”

We’ve been on our trip for a couple of weeks now, so when she catches my eye and gives me the look, I know her feigned exhaustion is just a ruse. She really has a hidden agenda for us tonight. I’m excited to see what she has planned and cross my fingers that maybe it’ll wear me out enough I’ll pass out by the time we go to bed.

“That’s okay. I was thinking about going out with some of my friends, anyway,” Grandma says as the elevator doors glide open. She steps out into the hallway and we follow. “But could you two girls do me a favor?”

“Of course, Grandma Stephy, we’d be more than happy to.” Indigo lays on her charm thickly.

“Make sure the door shuts all the way when you decide to sneak out.” Grandma Stephy grins at us as she digs the keycard out of her purse. “Last time, you left it open. You were lucky we didn’t get robbed.”