Page 2 of The Knotheads Next Door
"What are you fighting about," I say, crossing my arms over my university t-shirt, "And what does it have to do with me?"
They all freeze like I've caught them mid-crime. Which, to be fair, emotionally? I think I have.
The kitchen clock ticks. Once. Twice. Three times. The dishwasher hums in the background, oblivious to the atomic bomb that is threatening to detonate my life.
Then Dad sighs. He rests his forehead in his hands, covering his eyes so he doesn't have to look at me.
"Ro, sweetheart, your Pops and I," He pauses, "Neither of us is your biological father."
Holy shit.
My hands start to shake.
"What thefuckdoes that mean? That I'm adopted or something?"
Pops hasn't turned away from the sink, but I hear his chilling words all the same.
"No. Your mother… stepped out on our bonding. Shortly before she got pregnant with you. You're not adopted. But your biological father has reached out recently."
"Rowan," my mom starts, taking a step toward me, her hand outstretched. Her wedding ring—the one with three stones for their three-way bond—catches the light. "It was a confusing time—"
"Oh, no. Don't you dare 'confuse time' me." My voice wobbles, and I hate it, but it's happening. I feel the telltale burn behind my eyes, the pressure in my throat. "You've had my entirelifeto tell me something like this. And you waited until the guy randomly shows up like some long-lost soap opera ex?!"
Pops pushes away from the sink, his alpha scent spiking with protective pheromones that would normally comfort me but now just make me feel suffocated. "Bunny, please—"
"Don't 'bunny' me either!" I snap, the childhood nickname landing like a barb. "Is he the reason that I'm latent? Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years of doctor appointments trying to figure out why I haven't presented yet. Of genetic testing and hormone therapies and being the weird girl who's in between designations. And this whole time—"
"We thought it would never come up," Pops says, pleading. His eyes—the same hazel color as mine, I always thought—are bright with emotion. "We raised you. We love you. That's never changed."
Dad slides off his stool, approaching cautiously. "You're still our daughter, Rowan. Nothing can change that."
I believe them. I do. But I'm also suddenly floating just a few inches off the ground—untethered and spiraling. My life has been rewritten in a single sentence, history rearranged like furniture in a room I thought I knew.
"Cool," I say, because what else can you say when your origin story gets a surprise reboot?
"Great. I need to scream into a void. Be back never."
I grab my purse and phone and storm out the front door with all the flair of a drama queen on a tv show. Which would be more effective if I hadn't forgotten my shoes. But the shock of cold concrete on my bare feet is almost welcome—at least it's a distraction from the emotional earthquake rumbling through my chest.
I don't speak to them again.
Not when Pops texts hourly updates about their elderly corgi's bladder issues. Not when Dad emails articles about late bloomers who presented after thirty with the subject line "Hope." Not when Mom leaves increasingly frantic voicemailsthat evolve from apologetic to worried to straight-up guilt-trippy.
Three Weeks Later
I stare at my laptop screen, waiting for the words to change. Maybe the pixels will glitch, the email will refresh, and the universe will correct itself.
But no. The email still reads:
Subject: Employment Termination Notification
Rowan,
Due to restructuring, your position has been eliminated, effective immediately.
Blah, blah, blah."We appreciate your contributions," "this is not a reflection of your work," "good luck in your future endeavors."
They may as well have written,Sucks to be you! Bye!and signed it with a middle finger emoji.
