Story 94 of 100

Elena Tucker
5 min readMay 21
Photo by Mark Hang Fung So on Unsplash

A Reunion of Sorts — Part 1

“A baby in a blanket was found in a dark side street dotted with litter strewn from a nearby upturned dumpster. It was me. I was that baby,” David said, leaning back into the burgundy leather chair.

Carmella knew she had a great story there. The ultimate rags to riches story, and only she had the exclusive. The phone next to her was recording everything, she made sure to ask David if it was all right by him. He only shrugged and gave her a strange smile. “If you wish,” he said.

Carmella definitely wished. She made sure the phone was fully charged — it was even connected to a portable battery in her purse. Plus, she opened up a notebook and took out a new pen, although she had used it a few times to make sure it was reliable. She had several more pens in her purse, as back-ups. Nothing was going to go wrong because she was prepared for all eventualities. She even had an epi pen with her, although she had no known allergies. Being prepared was her middle name.

“What’s your first memory?” Carmella asked David.

But he shook his head. “I’m sorry Carmella, but I’m going to interrupt my own interview here. Do you know why I asked for you, although you’re just out of journalism school and have almost no experience?” he asked her.

“No,” Carmella shook her head. She was extremely curious, but wasn’t going to ask right away. She didn’t want to jinx anything, wanted to build trust.

“It’s because you’re my sister. Your mother is my mother,” David said quietly.

“Wait. What? Graciela is your mom?” Carmella was caught so off guard, she actually stood up.

“No, no, Graciela is not your biological mother, nor mine. Our biological mother’s name is Lucinda Brown. She left me in a trashcan, but she left you with a friend’s housekeeper, a woman who was widowed, but willing to take care of another mouth to feed.”

“Graciela is my mama. She loved me, she hugged me, she comforted me, she took care of me, she encouraged me, she read to me, she taught me everything, everything! How dare you suggest…” Carmella was outraged, sputtering.

“I didn’t mean to imply she wasn’t your mother, not for a minute. I said she wasn’t your…

Elena Tucker

Writer and storyteller, immigrant, wife, mom, knitter, collector of jokes, lover of cheap, sweet wine.