The Year I Became Isabella Anders (Sunnyvale, #1)

“I know he’s not the best dad in the world, but I promise he loves you,” she insists, looking a tad bit apprehensive. “He just hasn’t always been able to show it.”


“And what about Lynn?” I’m looking her dead in the eyes, so I see the fear flicker across her face.

She swallows hard. “Lynn is . . .” She rubs her hand across her face, looking stressed.

“She’s not my mom,” I answer for her in an uneven voice.

She looks utterly remorseful. “I’m so sorry, Isa. I really am. I don’t want you to hurt, but I guess there’s no easy way for you to learn about this.”

Her words sink in, but it takes a moment or two for them to really, really hit me. And fucking hell, they hurt, like a kick to the shin, a slam of the elbow, a gash to your heart hurt.

“Who’s my real mom?” I ask quietly, refusing to look at Indigo, even though I can feel her trying to catch my gaze.

Grandma Stephy smashes her lips together as her eyes well up. “I wish I could tell you, but . . .” She kneels down in front of me. “I don’t know who she is. Only your dad does . . . and Lynn. They’ve kept it a secret from the rest of the family, which was pretty easy for them, since they barely keep in contact with anyone except for the few reunions they attended.”

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.”