That word hit like a slap. I opened my mouth, closed it again, felt every year of silence fold over me. “I never abandoned you,” I said, careful, steady. “You knew me your whole life. I was at every birthday, every school play, every graduation.”

“You were always there,” she said, a bitter little smile. “But never mine.” She glanced past me, out the window where the afternoon light made the dust slow and golden. “Last year I found the documents in Mom’s drawer. The legal agreement. The clinic papers. Your name.”

I sat down because my knees didn’t agree to keep me standing. “You found out last year?”

“I did. At first I was numb. Then I got furious. You carried me. Your egg, Dad’s… material.” She winced. “You gave me away and kept showing up as Auntie like it was normal. I couldn