Lily stared into the mirror in her office washroom checking her makeup. Who was she, this woman? The more she lived, the less she knew. By the time she was on her deathbed, would she even know her own name? Probably not.
Of all days for Sister Johnnetta to come to the meeting wearing the same pantsuit as her. And why did that matter so much? It’s not like anybody would mistake one of us for the other. She shook her head. It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.
It also didn’t matter that the woman’s surname had been her family’s surname, Johnnetta’s people having been enslaved on the Branfords’ plantation for close to four hundred years. Sister Johnnetta’s people had more than earned the right to the name. It wasn’t even her family name anymore; the Branfords, through marriage, became Fabers in 1867.
The other thing did matter. Even though it, too, shouldn’t, not these days. Lily pressed a paper towel to the corners of her eyes, blotting the tears collecting there. That damn nephew and his damn DNA test. Why did he have to announce the results today of all days? The meeting of the Foundation board.
Her secretary knocked discreetly on the washroom door. “Your Honor, are you okay?”
“Fine,” she said, her voice a little strangled. “I’ll be right out.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The amount of Ashkenazi Jewish DNA in her nephew’s report was compelling: great-great-great grandfather Faber wasn’t a German Lutheran as the records had claimed; he was a Jew. Was there even such a thing...
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