When I was a kid I would fantasize that I was adopted. I was the child of two cash-strapped grad students who had given me up so they could...
When I was a kid I would fantasize that I was adopted. I was the child of two cash-strapped grad students who had given me up so they could finish their dissertations. This couple—he was an English professor by now, probably, she an artist—lived in a big brick house covered in ivy. It was packed full of books. One January, while drinking wine by the fire, they would finally have that tough conversation, the one where they would discuss their long-lost daughter and wonder where she’d ended up. She’d be about, what, 10 now? 11? The professor would set down his wine and take his wife’s hand.
So we were all in agreement, then. The middle of the country was not the place for me.