Switched at Birth: The True Story of a Mother's Journey by Kathryn Kennish, ABC Family Read Free Book Online

information out of one of the hospital lawyers and he immediately called us to report it. John, Toby, and I were in the kitchen, finishing dinner. Bay was in her art studio.
    “Hello, John, Kathryn....” His über-educated voice came booming through the phone’s speaker. “Are you sitting down?”
    (Now, I ask you, did any good conversation ever begin with that phrase?)
    On his end of the line, I heard papers shuffling. I think I may have been wringing my hands, waiting for this legal equivalent to a superhero to speak again. When he did, I wished he hadn’t.
    East Riverside , he told us.
    Single mother , he said. On the plus side, this single mother was an American citizen (not always a given for residents of that neighborhood), or at least he hadn’t been told anything to the contrary.
    “Anything else?” John asked, dragging a hand down his face.
    No, that was all he had for us at the moment. Captain Adjudication apologized for not being able to do a full background check on the single mom from East Riverside, but when he’d prodded the hospital henchman for a name, the other lawyer suddenly remembered his ethics and shut up. But certainly, the three facts we did have did not bode well for the next day’s meeting.
    “Good work, Counselor,” John said heavily. “Thanks.”
    When the super-lawyer signed off, I pictured him rushing to the nearest phone booth to change out of his cape and tights and back into his Hugo Boss pinstripe.
    I pressed my fingertips to my temples and sighed. “Our little girl lives in East Riverside?”
    “So what are we thinking?” Toby asked, taking his last bite of pecan-crusted tilapia. “Worst case scenario, she’s a gang member?”
    At that, I gasped. I think I turned completely white and my eyes flew open wide.
    Toby gulped down his fish. “Mom, I was kidding!”
    “Of course he was kidding.” John quickly put his arms around me. “Sweetheart, she’s a fifteen-year-old girl, not an ex-con.”
    “As far as we know …”
    “You’re being irrational.”
    “Well don’t you think I’m entitled?” I lowered myself onto one of the bar stools, throwing up my hands. “Hell, I’d say I’m entitled to be stark raving mad! And so far I’ve managed to keep it down to a mild case of crazy. So how about giving me a little credit?”
    Toby offered me a fist bump and said, “Respect.”
    I lowered one eyebrow at him. “Is that gang lingo?”
    “No, it’s Aretha Franklin.”
    Believe it or not, I laughed and clonked my knuckles against his.
    I think this is a good place to make a point about humor: Never, ever underestimate its healing power. Because, looking back, I know in my heart that it was the laughter—when we could manage it—that got us through those six weeks. Bay’s rapier wit, Toby’s clever irreverence, John’s goofy jokes, even my own occasional silliness—they were like an elixir that kept me from burying myself under the emotional weight of it all. We laughed to keep from crying, and that is the reason I never did cross the line from mildly crazy to full-on nuts.
    Laughter . Enough said.
    Now, less than twenty-four hours after our conversation with the Caped Litigator, we were preparing to see firsthand the effects of growing up in East Riverside.
    When the office door opened, my heart leaped into my throat.
    And then, it melted.
    Melted, at the sight of the stunning, slender strawberry blonde who was smiling shyly at John and me. (No do-rag, no gang ink, thank heaven.) Just an utterly angelic-looking teenage girl.
    Did I notice the woman who had come into the office with her? Not at all. Because for one split second it was as if this girl and Bay and I were the only three people on the entire planet. I felt a surge of pride at how beautiful both my daughters were.
    If I had a billion pages to fill I could not adequately describe how I felt in those first few seconds; I think perhaps I was experiencing emotions that have yet to be named, feelings so